


From the Pen of Inky Quill

by okapi



Series: The Marylebone Monthly Illustrated [7]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Anthropomorphic, Crack, Ficlet Collection, Gen, Poetry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-14
Updated: 2018-05-13
Packaged: 2018-06-08 09:24:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 49
Words: 38,453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6848800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/okapi/pseuds/okapi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Inky Quill, expatriate porcupine and interim resident of Her Majesty's Zoological Garden, has been invited to write a monthly column for the Marylebone Monthly Illustrated.</p><p>48. Inky's Poetry Journal. Ghazal.<br/>49. Inky says good-bye.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. May

_We are delighted to welcome the latest contributor to our publication.  As a non-native to our shores we look forward to sharing his thoughts on our life and times._

* * *

Greetings, readers of the _Marylebone Monthly Illustrated_ _!_

I, Inky Quill, have had the great honour of being invited to contribute to this distinguished publication.

My aim is to amuse you with my observations on life as—borrowing from my countryman Mark Twain—a Connecticut porcupine in King Arthur’s Court. Clever phrasing, but imprecise, as my current residence is not a court, but rather Regent’s Park.

But here I am putting the end at the beginning, and that will not do.

My tale begins, as all good tales do, with poetry.

It was an ordinary day in an ordinary American forest and I, an ordinary porcupine, was going about the ordinary task of deciding if, for the purposes of my sonnet, the light upon the dew-damp leaves was, in fact, ‘gentle’ or perhaps ‘tender’ when a net settled on me in a manner most antithetical to both those words. I was transported to the city and put on a vessel with a menagerie of fellow captives.

As is so often the case in life, many things only make sense in hindsight. At the time, I did not know that of the words printed on crates about me—JAMRACH ~ LONDON—only the latter was a destination. I did not know that a violent storm such as besieged my floating prison was, in fact, quite common. It pains me to report that all life perished in the waves, save that of this lowly rodent.

With my only rations the eleven sprigs of clover and a half-piece of bark hidden amongst my spines, my raft—which I named the JAMRACH ~ LONDON for its stencilling—drifted from sea to river, carrying me into the heart of a metropolis the likes of which I had never before seen.

Strolling down the avenue, agog at my new surroundings, I heard a tiny voice.

“Hello, sir! Are you lost?”

Beneath the numbers ‘221’ sat a small, but perfectly formed, mouse.

Being of the same order of _Rodentia_ , we naturally fell into conversation, and her whiskers trembled as I recounted my misfortunes. She hospitably offered me lodging at 221, but I declined. A fellow accustomed to forest life will find himself ill at ease surrounded by walls. She quite understood and guided me toward greener pastures.

And that is how I became an interim resident of Her Majesty’s Zoological Garden.

Interim because there is a carefully concealed egress by which I may exit the Garden and go about visiting the city and beyond. And the humans, those who maintain the Garden and those who visit it, do not seem to mind—or indeed, even, note—when my friends, an anteater and a hedgehog, understudy for me on stage, so to speak.

Mouselet and I became fast friends, and I came to know many of her associates, including the editor of this fine journal. And so ends my journey from America to 221 to your breakfast table reading. Until next month, I remain,

Your humble servant,

Inky Quill


	2. June

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For my LJ 1_million_words Action/adventure Bingo square: fighting an animal.

Tea at Sloth’s was a lovely affair, and it bore the most startlingly, extraordinary result.

But first, as they say, tea.

The table was set with fine linen and adorned with winsome flowers. The tea itself was no less exquisite, rich and robust in colour, aroma, and flavour, but, to my poet’s palette, it seemed to leave a trace of wistful longing on the tongue. I inquired as to its origin and was informed that it had been a gift from Mouselet and was, in fact, the house blend of 221B Baker Street, imported straight from the terraced hill estates of Terai.

Well, one could do no better than that.

The tea set was of delicate porcelain, and I watched with awe as an army of sloth moths handled it; their deft maneuvers endowed with such strength and grace that a butterfly cinquain sprang fully formed in my head, much like Athena from Zeus’s skull.

Though Sloth delegated the tea-pouring to his legion of moth-servants, he was, I discovered later, exceedingly proud of his cream cakes and preferred to see to them himself—and bring them to table himself. Thus, the lapse between the drinking of the tea and the arrival of the cakes was, perhaps, a bit longer than customary.

I had let my eyes close and my head tilt as if listening to the strains of a finely-tuned Stradivarius when I heard him approach. At a rattle. Alarmed, my eyes flew open.

My host was trembling, yes, trembling, a word which by its very definition is quick motion, and thus, anathema to his kind. The beautiful cakes and confections were in imminent danger of decorating the rug so I rushed to his aide. And when the tray was sitting solidly on the table, I turned to ask,

“Whatever is the matter?”

“Oh, Inky! It’s a tragedy.”

And then the story poured out like, well, a fine Darjeeling in a china cup.

It seems that his latest familial remittance was returned with the distressing news that his mother no longer resided at her tropical abode. After some investigation, he had learned that she had been taken captive and transported to this country where she was awaiting sale.

I knew before the horrid word was uttered who was at the bottom of this sad tale.

Jamrach!

Mister Charles Jamrach, importer-exporter of exotic animals, emperor of the Menagerie-Emporium on the Ratcliff Highway, and my sworn enemy for his role in my own forced expatriation from my native land.

The tasty seedcake crumbled like dust in my mouth, so righteous was my anger.

“We _will_ free her,” I vowed.

“But how, Inky?” my host wailed. And if you had ever heard a sloth, creatures normally so even-tempered and unflappable of nature, wail, well, you would have done what I did:  set your mind to scheming something more intricate—and daring—than even Mister Petrarch had devised. 

Freeing a caged animal was no simple task. There would be bars, locks, chains, perhaps, nets, not to mention human interference. And upon liberation, Mother Sloth would require ferrying to safety.

Quick-thinking, resourcefulness, even courage, I had. What I needed was sheer brawn, ruthlessness, and opposable thumbs.

And for that, I knew I needed Baboon.

One does not greet the devil empty-handed. I knew that my fearsome neighbor at Her Majesty’s Zoological Garden had two weakness:  jam and the works of Rudyard Kipling. So armed with a jar of what Mouselet assured me was the finest that the 221B larder had to offer and a copy of _The Jungle Book_ , I crept slowly towards his cage.

After consuming the entirety of my strawberry-rhubarb offering and pelting a sleeping zebra with the empty vessel, he insisted on no less than five spirited recitations of “Mandalay” and “Gunga Din.”

I performed each with increasing aplomb, knowing just what was at stake.

Finally, he gave a wave and a nod that he was ready to hear my appeal.

The alliance was not as difficult to forge as I supposed: as it turns out, even baboons have mothers.

We went that very night to the Ratcliff Highway premises to conduct our reconnaissance and by the time we had returned to the Garden at dawn, our plan was set.

The following morning, we orchestrated a near-stampede by Elephant, ensuring that the Garden was preemptively closed by eleven o’clock. We escaped as soon as the gates locked, keeping to the less travelled thoroughfares until we reached our destination.

Baboon flew into the trees as we neared the Emporium building. I went to the front, where boxes stacked ready for conveyance to Jamrach’s Betts Street warehouse.

One box had a tiger. A mad tiger.

He was mad when he smelled me. Mad when he saw me peek an eye through a hole in his cell. Mad when he felt my quill pierce him deep.

Enraged, he forced his confines. And lunged. And roared.

I heard the doors to the Emporium burst open behind me, human shouts, animal shrieks. I closed my ears to the cacophony and skittered as fast as my legs would move.

I felt the tiger behind me.

And then he was gone.

I read later that he seized a human boy by the arm and that Jamrach and his men had beat him until he relinquished his grip.

The suffering of another, especially the young, is lamentable, but it provided the perfect diversion. No one was minding—or even looking at—the shop, as it were.

I ducked into a side-street and doubled back to the Emporium.

There was no sign of Baboon.

I held my breath.

Then there he was, climbing out of a high window.

With a furry grey-brown sack on his back.

* * *

At the reunion of mother and son, there was not a dry eye in the house. Mouselet was near drowning in tears and even the stalwart Ocelot sniffed once. The Ferret borrowed my second-best handkerchief, which I had brought along for just the purpose.

We had finished the tea and were awaiting the cream cakes when Mouselet asked about Baboon.

I told her that he sent his apologies—which, of course, he did nothing of the kind, baboons do _not_ apologise—but that he was indisposed after consuming, in quick succession, the three jars of the most excellent onion chutney bestowed upon him in return for a job well done.

The seed-cake was divine, and after having much more than my fill, I lumbered back to my lair at the Garden and if anyone, animal or human, wants to have an audience with me, they shall have to view my silent, spiny back alone. For I shall not be at home to anyone but the Muse for at least a fortnight, so until next month, my dear readers, I remain,

Your humble servant,

Inky Quill


	3. Inky's Poetry Journal: Sloth Moths Pouring Tea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A page from Inky's Poetry Journal. This is the cinquain formed when he went to tea at Sloth's.

fairies

many as one

dream-woven and verse-spun

fluttering flickering flotsam

On air

porcelain vessel hovers, tilts

held aloft by winged hosts

amber cascade

to cup


	4. July

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the LJ 2016 Watson's Woes prompt #05: A False Mustache.

There comes a time when all good rodents must come to the aid of the order, and it is such a time that led me, Inky Quill, expatriate, poet, porcupine, and interim resident of Her Majesty’s Zoological Garden, to 221B Baker Street, and the armchair opposite a sleeping Doctor Watson.   
  
I was only two lines into silently composing my epic ballad of Thorn the Bone-Collector, the African porcupine kept in the Royal Menagerie circa 1598, when the good doctor stirred.   
  
**_ Good evening, Doctor. _ **  
  
“Good Lord!”   
  
**_ I am Il Medico della Peste. _ **  
  
“Holmes must be at the Devil’s Foot root again!  There’s giant rat in a Plague Doctor mask sitting in his chair!”   
  
Now I understand that in some circles ‘giant rat’ might be interpreted as an insult, but seeing as how I am, in fact, part of the third largest species of the  _ Rodentia _ order, and how I was, in fact, disguised in the precise manner that the good doctor described, I took no offense.   
  
“Maybe the woodcock was a bit off,” he murmured.   
  
**_ You will not disparage the culinary skill of your much beleaguered landlady! _ **  
  
I have a soft spot for Mrs. Hudson.   
  
“Oh, of course not, but, uh…”   
  
**_ We are very alike, Doctor. _ **  
  
I am a gentle creature by nature, but for this particular mission, I chose to don the persona of crafty villain. Alternating abject disdain with flattery is not unusual for such characters.   
  
“Really?” he asked, mopping his brow with a handkerchief. I rejoiced as clearly my villainy was having its proper somatic effect.   
  
**_ Creatures of the world, of quill and ink _ ** —and now you see, my dear readers, my weakness for puns— **_ well-travelled, well-read, philosophical souls _ ** …   
  
“You write?”   
  
At this, I bristled. Just a bit.   
  
**_ Have you not read [Sloth Moths Pouring Tea](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6848800/chapters/16723396)?  _ **  
  
“Can’t say I’ve had the pleasure.”   
  
**_ It has been favorably compared to works of George Herbert, the Welsh devotional lyricist, but that is neither here nor there. _ ** I turned my beaked head and sniffed.  **_ You and I are also creatures of action, Doctor. We do not shirk where courage is required. Why, just [last month](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6848800/chapters/16495048), I went head to head with a mad tiger. What did you do last month? _ **  
  
“I convinced Holmes to change his tooth powder.”   
  
**_ See? Hommes formidables. Are you familiar with the works of the German Doctor Mesmer? _ **  
  
“Vaguely.”   
  
**_ I am a disciple of his and the enlightened Scotsman Doctor James Braid, so now I will say, ‘Listen to my voice, Doctor. You are getting sleepy. Very, very sleepy.’ _ **  
  
“Of course I am it’s,” he checked his pocket watch, “past two in the morning.”    
  
**_ Just listen to my voice… _ **  
  
**_ …sleepy… _ **  
  
**_ …sleepy… _ **  
  
**_ …sleepy. _ **  
  
The doctor’s eyelids fluttered like sloth moths pouring tea.    
  
**_ Now, when Inspector Hopkins and Mister Holmes return you will, without either of them noticing, remove the folded piece of paper from the right coat pocket of the Inspector and throw it into the fire. Do you understand, Doctor? _ **  
  
“…Hopkins…coat…letter…fire…”   
  
**_ Without anyone noticing. I will be watching, Doctor, and if you fail in this task, there shall be a bed of nails _ ** —quills in actuality— **_ waiting for you. _ **  
  
He frowned. “Why not you?”   
  
I glanced at my paws and sighed.    
  
**_ Opposable thumbs.  _ **  
  
“But then how do you write?”   
  
**_ His wonders to perform, Doctor. _ ** I have found that nothing forestalls argument as much as misquoting Scripture. I returned to the matter at hand.  **_ At the sound of the crashing porcelain, you will awaken and remember nothing of this exchange. Nothing of Il Medico della Peste. _ **  
  
I launched myself at the tea tray and knocked a teacup to the floor with my tail, then slipped, mask and all, beneath the table, concealed by a long tablecloth. Soon, I heard footsteps and voices.   
  
“Hullo, Watson!”   
  
“Doctor.”   
  
“Hullo. Um. How did it go? Here, let me take your coat, Inspector.”   
  
“Oh, that’s very kind of you.”   
  
As the new arrivals launched into a spirited account of their adventures, I peeked from under the tablecloth.    
  
Doctor Watson had the paper! I recognized the aubergine-coloured ink, even at a distance.   
  
“Nodding off again, I see, Watson.”   
  
“Oh, yes, the cup. Mrs. Hudson will not be pleased.”   
  
“No indeed.”   
  
“I’ll clear it up myself so as not to disturb her at this hour. Now, tell me more about the case.”   
  
The two men only had eyes for each other as they continued their tale and Watson fluttered—once again bringing to mind the sloth moths. I spied, to my elation, the paper tossed into and consumed by the fire, with Inspector Hopkins and Mister Holmes none the wiser. And at just that moment the hidden quill that I had placed between the fire and the rug while the doctor slept had finally caused the fringe of the rug to smolder.    
  
_ Fortes, Inquit, Fortuna Iuvat! _  
  
And while Vesuvius erupted, I made my exit.   
  
\---   
  
“Oh, Inky! Thank you!” squeaked Mouselet. “I don’t know what came over me! A madness! Have you ever done something so rash?”   
  
I hadn’t the heart to tell her that as a confirmed bachelor I had never been tempted much by rashness, so I said,    
  
“Of course, my dear, but now the deed is undone, so to speak.”    
  
We heard footsteps overhead.    
  
“Oh, Holmes, in all the commotion, I forgot to say ‘thank you.’ It touched me deeply.”   
  
“You have the better of me, I’m afraid.”   
  
“The poem you tucked in my coat pocket. It was beautiful.”   
  
“Oh…”   
  
“This one.” A rustling. “Well, it was here somewhere. Maybe I put it…I could’ve sworn…”    
  
Mouselet’s tiny lip trembled. Her eyes welled with tears.    
  
“There, there, my Dear. I’ll write you another. Tea?”   
  
“Yes, please.”


	5. Inky's Poetry Journal: The Seasons of the Bees.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I have taken the playwright’s advice to ‘go to the bee, then poet, consider her ways and be wise’ in my recent plunder of Mister Holmes’s burgeoning library on apiology. Here, the humble fruit of my labour, for your enjoyment.

In spring the hive awakes from winter’s sleep

Abuzz, alive, aburst with vigour, vim.

A ceaseless litany of tasks to keep

the thriving clan astir ‘til daylight’s dim.

 

From waggling dances, news of nectar sweet

unleashes swarms of hunting parties bold

who forage gleefully in summer’s heat.

The tender-tended combs soon brim with gold.

 

In autumn, waning light bids toil to slow

Last nectar sip, last pollen-heavy load

The hive, though thinned, is bright with honey-glow

That welcomes home when autumn’s chill does goad.

 

The winter cluster thrums as one ‘round queen

To share warmth, the harvest, and, of spring, dream.

 

 


	6. The Sign of Four (Rodents)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Inky confronts the Giant Rat of Sumatra in a wharf-pub and gets some help from a disguised Watson (and his undisguised revolver).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> References to canon story "The Sussex Vampire" and the wharf-pub scene in "The Great Mouse Detective." Feel free to imagine Vincent Price as the voice of the Giant Rat. I did.
> 
> For the 2016 July Watson's Woes Promptfest prompt #29, Arr! Arr! ARRR! Arr! Arr! Send Holmes and/or Watson down to the dockyards, or away to sea, or aboard a ship. Sinister cargo, sinister crew? Does a sailor come to them for help, or is there mischief brewing down at the harbour warehouses? It's up to you!

“ _Selamat Siang, Pak_ ,” I said.

The rat’s smile displayed every pointy white tooth in his mouth.

“Good afternoon to you, Mister Quill. I apologise for the humble setting of our inaugural meeting. I hope it does not offend your good taste.”

“I have known a wharf or two in my time, _Pak_. And a pub, for that matter.” I looked about me. “This ‘Sign of Four’ possesses a certain charm.”

“You know me.”

“I know of you. Your notoriety and news of the _Matilda Briggs_ have preceded your arrival in port.”

“And I know you. ‘[Sloth Moths Pouring Tea](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6848800/chapters/16723396),’ to use your own words, possesses a certain charm, though I confess that I consider ‘Thorn the Bone-Collector’ to be the proverbial jewel in your crown.”

“Thank you. Was your invitation to discuss poetry? If so, you might be better served by attending the next meeting of the Whiskers and Words Society; it’s every third Thursday of the month at Her Majesty’s Royal Zoological Garden.”

“No.” He tapped his cigarette on the edge of table. “I have asked you here on business. I am quite new to this metropolis, fresh off the boat, as they say; a humble immigrant, much like yourself not too long ago, forced by circumstance to make my way in a foreign, and sometimes hostile, land, and I am in need some assistance. To whom else might I turn, but my fellow rodent?”

“No.”

“Now, now, Mister Quill, you speak too hastily. You do not know my request. Or my terms.”

“I shan’t aid you in your villainy.”

“Villainy? Ha! Poets use such lovely, colorful words.”

“I know what happened to the _Matilda Briggs_.”

“No one knows what happened to the _Matilda Briggs_.”

“To paraphrase a recent acquaintance, ‘Most people see, and read, but they do not observe.’” I leaned in closer. Every strand of his sleek black fur quivered, as did his long, pale tail and short, paler whiskers. “I am a poet. I observe, even what is not there.”

The steely glint in his eyes belied the dispassionate chuckle. “I could use an associate with an imagination and a well-evolved defence mechanism, Mister Quill. They say you are a gentle-rodent.”

“I am gentle with words.”

“So [the rumour about the tiger](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6848800/chapters/16495048) is true. Interesting, very interesting.”

“I will stop you.”

“Unlikely. What can one rodent do?”

“I don’t know. What can one? But I am not alone.”

“That little mouse? I believe that she fled the premises the instant she spied me. I have that effect on some of our smaller kin.”

“Please underestimate her. You do so to your own peril. Perhaps she just didn’t like the smell—”

His eyes flashed. “Why, you miserable prickly little—!”

“—but I was, in fact, not referring to Miss Mouselet.”

_Click!_

The rat’s eyes rose, then widened. The cavern behind his pointy white teeth gaped.

“Mister Quill,” said a deep voice above me.

“Doctor Watson,” I replied calmly.

“Would you please pass the salt?”

“Certainly.”

In a flash, the rat was gone.

“Quick!” I cried, nudging a vial across the table, attempting to corral a trio of black dots into the glass cylinder. “The cork, Doctor Watson!”

He sealed the vial, then studied it. “Fleas.”

“Very ill fleas, if I am not mistaken. Mister Holmes will need your medical acumen in determining the specifics and perhaps that of an entomologist as well.”

“The _Matilda Briggs_?”

“Possibly. They may also give indications of his plans in London. Let us hope that you will not, in truth, require my _Il Medico della Peste_ mask.”

His expression darkened. He stroked his moustache thoughtfully, then looked over his shoulder.

“Holmes is still nursing his pint, waiting for something to happen.”

“By all means, return to him and do what you do best.”

He gave me an inquiring look.

“Conduct light,” I said.

He smiled and nodded farewell.

“Oh, and Doctor Watson?” I called at his retreating form. He stopped. “Carbolic soap, lots of it. And burn those clothes.”

He laughed and looked down at his red-and-white-striped shirt.

“Gladly.”

* * *

“Watson, what have you been doing all this time?”

“Conversing with my fellow wharf-rats. Holmes, I think we should return to Baker Street.”

He sighed. “As loathe as I am to admit defeat, I agree with you. If Moriarty’s associate were to make a _rendezvous_ here with his local partner, it would’ve occurred already.” He rose. “On the way, you can relate what you’ve learned in your dark corner _tête-à-tête_.”

“We also need to stop so that I can rid myself of this utterly ridiculous _ensemble_.”

“What? You look perfect.”

I tugged at the tail of my ill-fitting shirt, then lifted my eye-patch.

“Were I en route to a fancy dress party, perhaps. But as a sailor, I look perfectly foolish.” 


	7. August

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Inky takes a seaside holiday.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the July 2016 LJ Watson's Woes Amnesty prompt 'the end of the pier show' and the LJ Holmes Minor August prompt 'relaxation.'

My recent tales may have given my readers the impression that I am a risk-seeking adventurer of iron constitution, that confronting villainous rats and mad tigers is a source of diversion, without any lasting consequence for my well-being.

Nothing could be more untrue.

The end of July found my nerves shattered. Putting pen to paper produced a few words of trite doggerel, a few tears of frustration. I consulted Doctor Watson, who is both a man of words and healing arts and, as he pointed out, often serves as primary caregiver for a temperamental, sensitive creature such as myself.

He prescribed a seaside holiday.

And so it was that Ferret and I found ourselves in Brighton. We were taking in the wonderful sights and smells, when who should we spot but Doctor Watson himself! Ferret tells me that that Londoners often travel many miles in August just to find themselves holidaying beside their neighbours from home.

Doctor Watson’s recommendations were two: the end of the pier show and a bathing machine, a wagon for changing into one’s bathing costume prior to entering the ocean. My mustelid companion paled at the word ‘costume’ and as my only concession to fashion is neckwear when addressing the Whisker and Words Society, we eschewed the latter. The former, however, seemed promising.

Oh, how we enjoyed the show, the dancing, the singing, the acrobatics. Then came the magician.

I was spellbound by the sleights of hand, but Ferret was captivated by the rabbit conjured from the top hat, so enamoured, in fact, that he spoke with her after the performance.

And, do you know, she convinced us to return for the second performance of the day and convinced Ferret to take her place for the end portion of the trick?

The look on the magician’s face when his rabbit turned into a ferret!

Ferret was so smitten that we returned for the third, and final, show of the day. The troupe was scheduled to depart the following morning, and he wanted to spend time with the lovely leporidae prior to fond farewells.

You ask too much, I said.

Please, Inky, please.

It was a tight squeeze. I did not allow the magician to grip me, but rather leapt from the dark bag in which I was ensconced—tearing it to shreds in the process—to the table.

The house filled with thunderous applause, but the magician fell to pieces, fleeing the stage. He blabbered, I learned later, about bank robberies that he and his fellow performers had committed, then staggered into the arms of the waiting local constabulary.

After that, I put my paw down. We would spend the rest of our holiday floating in the briny waters and nowhere else.

Ferret agreed, especially after his new-found love vanished without a trace in the hubbub that followed the magician’s act.

And so we did. And my muse returned like Venus rising from, well, you know where.

Until next month, I remain yours,

Inky Quill


	8. The Honeycreeper

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Inky and friends go undercover in a taxidermy shop.
> 
> Inspired by debriswoman's poem ["Still Life"](http://holmes-minor.livejournal.com/15600.html) and a pair of earrings from [this bizarrevictoria post](http://bizarrevictoria.livejournal.com/182248.html).

“Don’t look, Inky! It’s Mister Holmes and an indecent woman!”

Indecent woman? Curious. I commend you to my editor to answer any inquiries about curiosity killing members of his feline lineage, but such adage is unknown in the order _Rodentia_ , so I moved closer to the door and asked,

“My dear Mouselet, are you certain it isn’t Mister Holmes himself in a colourful disguise?”

Her look said ‘quite certain.’

I recalled an incident with Doctor Watson and a bowl of African marigolds. I am loathe to cast aspersions on another artist’s muse.

“Is Mister Holmes, by any chance, sketching?”

“Her ears, Inky!”

Her ears? A cold dread gripped me. Mister Holmes has, in the lumber room, a collection of jars of which we do not speak.

“Does he appear feverish? Pinpoint pupils? Should we alert Doctor Watson?”

“Oh no, he’s not been at that again. Go ahead and be appalled!”

She retreated. I advanced.

“Oh.”

The woman, I ungallantly drop the term ‘lady’ for a reason that will become immediately apparent, was very smartly dressed. She wore a pair of very long, very singular earrings.

The earrings were, in fact, the heads of a pair of bright azure-coloured birds.

They were not reproductions, my nose told me, but rather the preserved heads of the animals themselves. Their long, black beaks pointed upwards and were affixed to her lobes by a pair of golden flies. The most haunting parts of the spectacle were the eyes, light-catching glass where once, I knew, there had been alert, alive obsidian.

“Why, Inky?”

“I don’t know, my dear.”

“Oh, now Mister Holmes is asking to study one! Oh, how can he hold such things in his hands?”

“Mister Holmes is a natural philosopher at heart. He does not feel the weight of such things as we would. I recognise the bird, however. In my homeland, I once knew a well-travelled armadillo who possessed an astounding collection of drawings. Those are, or were rather, honeycreepers, also sometimes referred to as blue creeper. A native of much warmer parts of America than my own.”

“But imagine, Inky, if the honeycreeper were to wear _her_ head as adornment.”

Poets imagine. It is our burden, our lot, and our joy. So I imagined.

“Well, it would have to sacrifice flight, for starters. Oh, my dear, Mister Holmes is dismissing her. Let’s remove ourselves lest we tempt as baubles.”

We hid. The front door closed.

The frenzied fluttering on the other side of the wall brought to mind cyan wings against a lush green canopy, but it was only Mister Holmes, as my canine friends say, on the scent of something.

The front door opened. And speaking of loyal and stalwart companions, one was heard on the stairs.

“Watson! My files. I’ve just had an unusual interview.”

“And I’ve just seen an extraordinary-looking woman in a carriage…”

“Good, you follow. Please check Ploucquet, Potter, no, Ward.”

“Taxidermists? Yes, the woman had the whole heads of blue birds dangling from her ears!”

“Yes, she wanted me to find her missing husband. The request was not nearly as interesting as the birds.”

“I say.”

“Honeycreepers, but it is not the animals that interest me. How often, Watson, in our dealings with gems, stolen, cursed, missing, etcetera, are the real stones surreptitiously replaced with imitations, glass or paste? But in this case, the eyes of the birds were, in fact, the real jewels cast to look like imitations. Our would-be client is completely ignorant of this circumstance or she would not have allowed me conduct as thorough an examination as I did to confirm the fact.”

“Good Lord.”

“Indeed. So I am looking for an apprentice of one of the great artists of wildlife preservation. Someone with the same expertise, but perhaps not quite as many scruples.”

“Or large debts to pay.”

“That, too. There is smuggling at the bottom of this, Watson. I’m certain of it.”

“But where does one get a pair of such birds in the first place, Holmes?”

More fluttering.

“I suppose the usual.”

My role as audience, spectator, eavesdropper, was waning, for I knew what ‘the usual’ was.

Jarmach.

Importer-exporter of exotic animals.

My archenemy.

“Oh, my dear Mouselet, this is just the beginning.”

I shall never play whist again. The game is indelibly linked in my mind to the tortuous hour I spent in a glass case with a flurry of playing cards stuck in my quills.

The details of the case will be made known to the public in one of Doctor Watson’s chronicles, so I shan’t go into detail, except concerning my own role.

The rogue taxidermist and his accomplice, the missing husband, were located, and to use a frightful term, Mister Holmes, Inspector Hopkins, and Doctor Watson had decided to set a trap in the taxidermist’s shop.

Ferret, the Ocelot, Mouselet and I took the places of four mounted animals in a glass-enclosed tableau. We were to play cards, with the miniature deck provided, until we heard the shop owner and his associate return then freeze until the criminals were apprehended.

Easier said than done, both tasks.

As Ferret dealt, my paws trembled, and my cards slipped, scattering, most landing impaled about my back and head.

The Ocelot was placing his bet, cool and composed, when we all—four sets of animal ears are much keener than any human’s—heard the noise.

And froze.

It was so enormous task to keep still. Minute after minute ticked by. Muscles quivered. Dry eyes became parched. Strain and stress burned in every fibre of one’s being.

And then finally, two shots from a revolver and a stream of words not fit for even bird-wearing females’ ears and then a cry.

“We’ve got ‘em, men!”

Our glass ceiling was removed. Three sets of eyes stared down at four sets of eyes staring up. My companions and I stretched our tight bodies and, with some assistance, climbed out.

A celebratory feast was held at Baker Street that night for the two-legged creatures, and Doctor Watson gifted the four-legged each with a bag of delectables, specifically assembled to our dispositions.

Spirits were high amongst the men as a fortune in stolen diamonds had been recovered from the bodies of the weasel, civet, hedgehog, and vole that had originally made up the display. Mister Holmes, Inspector Hopkins, and Doctor Watson raised full glasses to each other, faces shining like the wings of a honeycreeper in flight.

I caught Doctor Watson’s eye and smile and nodded, but I could not share his enthusiasm. For me, that shop was a monument to horrific loss, to senseless waste. I thought my _Rodentia_ brethren, the hedgehog and the vole. There would be no toasting, no bag of sweet and savory bits for them. Had they been sacrificed for human greed? Or only human whimsy?

I passed a few mumbled words of farewell to my furred companions and returned in silence to my home at Her Majesty’s Zoological Garden.


	9. September

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> To catch a Giant Rat (and save his quills) Inky will need to set a giant trap.

I find myself quoting my countryman Mark Twain once again in the pages of this distinguished publication when I say that the report of my death was an exaggeration, and my sincere hope is that when my gentle readers learn the whole tale they will deem that exaggeration, though purposefully misleading, ultimately necessary given the circumstances and accept my humble apologies for any distress the news of my demise may have caused them.

My story begins late one night when I, though lost in the contemplation of the anapest, nevertheless detected a strange shadow having fallen across the entrance of my den.

“Mister Quill?”

I was surprised to see Baboon. My readers may remember our adventure in rescuing Mother Sloth from the clutches of the evil animal trader Jamrach, but I had seen little of my neighbor, the Kipling enthusiast, since that time.

Baboon paused in the threshold. Had he been in the habit of wearing hats, his would’ve been doffed and held nervously in his hands. His expression told me that this was not a social call, if baboons were ever known to make such calls, and his words sent chills down my spines.

“It pains me to say, sir, but you are not long for this world.”

* * *

When our conversation ended, I went directly to Baker Street.

And though the hour was extremely late, or early, if you prefer, Doctor Watson seemed nonplussed to find me at his bedside. He mumbled something about having been knocked up by stranger and sat up, gesturing for me to take a seat beside him.

Which I did. Then I told him all that I had learned.

“And this baboon is certain of his information?” he asked.

“It seems his brother, his twin brother, though they were raised in distinct environments since infancy—“

“A secret twin?! Good Lord.”

“—is the one who has been conscripted to carry out the assassination. My associate learned of his brother’s charge one night when they were feeling the effects of consuming a dozen jars of elderberry jam. Each.”

Doctor Watson raised his eyebrows, perhaps at the idea of a mercenary secret twin baboon, perhaps at such enormous quantity of jam. “Well, you certainly made an impression on that Giant Sumatran Rat! He must see you as a serious threat to have hired an assassin, with opposable thumbs, to carry out the elimination.”

I nodded. “I am to be made an example, to demonstrate to the world that the Rat will not tolerate threats, no matter how eloquently worded. Baboon says it is to be public, the more garish and gruesome the better.” I gulped.

Doctor Watson sighed and dropped his head. We both remained silent for a long moment, then he looked at me and said,

“I know what Holmes would do, if you’ve the stomach for it.”

“I prefer my stomach intact, so, yes,” I replied eagerly.

“He’d set a trap—and use himself as bait.”

* * *

On the evening of my death, The Rodentia of the World exhibit at Her Majesty’s Zoological Garden was alive as it had never been before. Word had spread far and wide that I had just completed my inaugural collection of verse written on this side of the Atlantic Ocean and the first fifty creatures in attendance at the launch party, sponsored by the Whiskers and Words Society of London, would receive a free autographed copy.

All eyes were on me and my sea-green-coloured tie, the neckwear I was known to prefer for more formal recitations, when I took to the podium. It was a tall platform that had been crafted for the occasion by an expert team of carpenter-beavers.

I made a few introductory remarks and adjusted my monocle, a glass affair and a recent addition to the wardrobe. I announced which of my most popular works I would be reading and hinted at a couple of offerings as yet unknown to my reading public. There was humming and shushing when I cleared my throat and announced the first entry on the programme: _Thorn the Bone-Collector_. It is always a crowd-pleaser.

As I looked down at my notes, the monocle slipped from its place. I begged pardon and ducked to retrieve it, and when quills reappeared before the audience, the shot rang out.

And blood splattered across mahogany.

There were shouts and screams. There were growls and shrieks. There was the sound of flight from the prey majority with the minority predators signaling fight, each according to their customs and weapons of choice. A small group rushed to the podium and surrounded the fallen.

* * *

Seven days underground. Seven days in darkness. Seven days entombed. Seven days with a pawful of moist leaves and a hollow straw linking my airless grave to the world above. I know it was seven days because others have since told me so. I myself quickly lost track of time, and my poet’s mind wandered across age and geography and even celestial sphere. The verse woven and unwoven like Penelope’s tapestry might—and perhaps will, one day—fill a second anthology.

Then there was a voice.

“All right, get ‘em out. Now!”

It might have been a fantasy were it not for the scratching—and yes, pawing—that sounded above me, interspersed with shouts of my name in various intonations. I was blind and clawing at nothing when the crisp early autumn air caressed my face.

My eyes focused, and I saw a familiar moustached figure.

“Well done. We got ‘em.”

I cried out in relief.

Aside Doctor Watson was Baboon. He wiped a tear from his eye and said,

“You’re a braver soul than I am, Inky Quill.”

* * *

Later, when I was wrapped in a blanket, seated at the entrance to my den, surrounded by my closest friends and colleagues, Doctor Watson explained what had happened during my sojourn below ground.

“The Rat got sloppy after he killed you, too confident, and we captured him, but it took some intervention from Mycroft Holmes to get anyone in power to believe what he had in store for London with those disease-ridden fleas. Inspector Lestrade and his colleagues raided a very interesting laboratory down by the docks, which helped our case. But the Rat has friends in higher places than us. He wasn’t executed. He was put on a boat bound for Australia, but I don’t think he’ll arrive there.”

“No?”

Doctor Watson shook his head. “His employer is no doubt going to be unimpressed with his lack of success, and, unfortunately for him, his is an employer that does not like to leave loose ends dangling, especially aboard ship. Here.” Doctor Watson produced a flat box and opened it. “A gift from Mister Holmes. He sends his regards. And his congratulations.”

It was a silk necktie of sea-green.

“Please thank him for me. My old one was ripped to shreds by a bullet.” Then I turned to Ferret. “Thank you, my friend. Your plan worked.”

“I suppose my seaside romance with the magician’s rabbit bore fruit after all,” said Ferret, grinning. “But it was you, Inky, who chose the right time for the switch, to trade places with the stuffed porcupine that we liberated from the taxidermy shop and hid inside the secret panel of the podium.”

“But you are the one that added the blood pack inside the fake Inky so that the bullet would produce the dramatic spray needed to scare the crowd,” I countered.

“I was scared long before that, Inky!” squeaked Mouselet. “It was so dreadful! Watching you die! And then burying you alive!”

“Inky needed to be safe,” said the Ocelot. “And the Rat needed to be assured of his success so that he would lower his guard.”

“Well, now I think Inky needs a rest!” cried Mouselet.

“Perhaps a change of scenery, Inky?” suggested Ferret. “Sometimes a change is as good as a rest.”

“Perhaps, if the right opportunity presents itself.” I said. “But for now, I am just grateful that the nightmare is over.”

We chatted a bit more and then one by one they departed. And I returned home.

And so you have it, my dear readers. And now I am packing for a journey to the West Country, it will be a chance to explore more of this fascinating country and to put my death, and resurrection, where it belongs.

In verse.

And so, thankfully, I remain until next month,

Your humble servant,

Inky Quill


	10. Inky's Poetry Journal: Seven Orchids

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An English sonnet written by Inky during [his trip to the West Country](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7946701/chapters/18168412). Inspired by the legend of the Hound of the Baskervilles.

The seven orchids of the autumn moor   
are known to bloom when summer’s riches wane   
They mark the site where maid of lore was slain   
and seven virtues felled by evil’s boor.   
  
For Innocence defiled so ruthlessly   
For Beauty seized like plund’ring victor’s prize   
For gentle Grace unmarred by weeping eyes   
For Youth made far too old by tragedy   
  
For Wisdom borne of peril’s schooling hand   
For Courage bold to grasp the chance escape   
to flee, mayhap, her destiny reshape   
For Strength that bore ‘til form could not withstand.   
  
Thus, blossoms spring from seven tear-sown ground,   
and from a drop of blood, the ‘venging hound.


	11. Inky's Poetry Journal: The Moorland Pony

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A pair of tanka written by Inky during [his trip to the West Country](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7946701/chapters/18168412).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For debriswoman.

The moorland pony  
rests upon the barren soil.  
Sturdy shaggy breed  
It fears neither the howling  
wind-hound nor the bittern's boom.  
  
The moorland pony  
trots as aspish mists uncoil.  
Toffee coloured steed.  
It wanders through the mire, past  
faded orchids, devil's loom.


	12. October

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mister Holmes is under the weather. Doctor Watson arranges for a bit of entertainment, courtesy of Inky and friends, to distract him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For [Small Hobbit](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Small_Hobbit/pseuds/Small_Hobbit). HAPPY BIRTHDAY!
> 
> References to the A. A. Milne story "In which Eeyore Has a Birthday and Gets Two Presents" as well as Shakespeare's _Hamlet, Henry V, Cymbeline,_ and _King Lear_ and Agatha Christie's _At Bertram's Hotel_.

I cleared my throat and began anew,

“Eeyore, the old grey donkey, stood by the side of the stream and looked at himself in the water.”

Once more, Sloth stepped forward onto the strip of blue cloth laid across the rug, and once more, the black tail clipped to his hindquarters snagged and the pink bow was lost amidst tufts of bear fur.

“Pathetic,” mumbled Sloth. He turned slowly and glanced behind him. “As I thought, no better from this side. But nobody minds. Nobody cares. Pathetic. That’s what it is.”

_ACHOO!_

A gravelly voice rumbled from the lump of wool and flannel and other human swaddling in the armchair.

_“Watson, what in the devil is that creature saying?”_

_“I believe Mister Sloth’s expressing melancholy. Not a very uplifting character.”_

I shot Doctor Watson a look that said that the evening’s entertainment _would_ be diverting if I were not constantly interrupted by violent sneezing and coughing—and distracted by the whispered commentary—from the audience.

Ferret would not be denied his entrance a second time. He leapt from behind the curtains bedecked in three muffs of matted golden fur—two were wrapped around his middle and one crowned his head, divided at the top in two tufts.

_“Goodness, what is that?” grumbled Mister Holmes._

_“A bear,” said Doctor Watson._

_“Of all the odd animals that have crossed our paths, Watson…”_

“Good morning, Eeyore!” cried Ferret.

“If it is a good morning, Pooh Bear,” said Sloth. “Which I doubt.”

“There is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so!”

I frowned and tapped my script. Ferret glanced at me, squinted, then turned back to Sloth.

“You seem sad, Eeyore.”

“Sad? Why should I be sad? It’s my birthday. The happiest day of the year. Can’t you see? Look at all the presents I have had. Look at the birthday cake. Candles and pink sugar.”

“Presents? Birthday cake? Where?” asked Ferret.

“Can’t you see them?”

“No.”

“Neither can I. Joke.”

“Stay there!” called Ferret. But Sloth did not obey. He ambled slowly, very, very slowly, toward the edge of the makeshift stage, dragging the river, his donkey tail, and the pink bow behind him.

Ferret ran in place, with forearms upraised.

“’O! for a Muse of fire, that would ascend the brightest heaven of invention!’”

And though it is not native to my homeland or my disposition, I tut-tutted. The Ocelot whispered in my ear, “It’s your own fault for buying him the complete works for _his_ birthday.”

Truth stings, but not for long. Mouselet soon made her entrance, as pink as an absent birthday cake.

_“Goodness,” murmured Mister Holmes._

This exclamation, I noted, held slightly less surprise than the previous one.

The rest of Mister Holmes’s words were consumed in a fit of hacking cough, which the troupe respected by freezing the scene. When silence descended once more upon the theatre, the action resumed.

“Hallo, Piglet,” said Ferret.

“Hallo, Pooh,” squeaked Mouselet.

As Ferret continued, Mouselet jumped up and down waving her tiny forepaws.“I have just seen Eeyore and he is in a Very Sad Condition because it’s his birthday and nobody has taken any notice of it, and he’s very Gloomy. What a long time whoever lives here is in answering this door.”

“But Pooh,” panted Mouselet, “it’s your own door!”

_“Watson, you know, that reminds me of the case of Canon Pennefather and his doppelgänger, as the Germans say, who impersonated the absentminded cleric not only at the Congress of Lucerne but also at his own residence…”_

_“Shhh, Holmes! They’ve been engaged by me to entertain you, distract you from your woes of body and mind. Please pay attention.”_

_“Oh, very well. ACHOO!”_

“Well, let’s go in,” said Ferret. He and Mouselet walked in a circle. The Ocelot was crouched behind a narrow table, one side of which had been refashioned into a cupboard. He swung it ‘round, and Ferret opened it and removed a small jar.

_“Good Lord, Watson! Is that…?”_

_“A perfectly innocent jar of medicinal unguent. Nothing more,” said Doctor Watson quickly_.

At this exchange, I made a mental note to ask Mouselet to return the prop to the precise nook or cranny or broom cupboard from whence she had purloined it. Mister Holmes’s cough was more a burble, so the scene marched on.

“I’m giving this to Eeyore,” said Ferret, holding up the jar, “as a present. What are you going to give him?”

Mouselet did a very convincing impression of thinking, then said, “I’ll give him a balloon. I’ve got one left from my party. I’ll go and get it now, shall I?”

“That, Piglet, is a very good idea. It is just what Eeyore wants to cheer him up. Nobody can be uncheered with a balloon.”

And through the crackling fire and the snuffling and snorting, I heard a hum, an _appreciative_ hum, from Mister Holmes. I was warmed. Artists such as myself subsist on whatever crumbs this callous world drops.

As Mouselet exit-scurried stage left, I lifted my chin and announced in my most eloquent tone,

“Pooh Bear passed through the Hundred Acre Wood, where Owl lived.”  

Ferret skipped in place, and the table swung ‘round again to reveal a canvas painted with a tree trunk. The Ocelot peeked out from behind it with a feathered mask before his face.

“Good morning, Pooh,” he said.

“Good Morning, Owl,” said Ferret, then he turned toward the armchairs, stretched out one forearm, and exclaimed,

“’Hark! hark! the lark at heaven's gate sings,

And Phoebus 'gins arise,

His steeds to water at those springs

On chaliced flowers that lies;

And winking Mary-buds begin

To ope their golden eyes—‘“

“Do you want me to write ‘Happy Birthday’ on that jar?” interrupted the Ocelot. “For Eeyore’s birthday?” he added with undisguised annoyance.

Ferret squinted at him, but replied sweetly, “Oh, would you please?”

“Certainly,” huffed the Ocelot, and at that, he produced a paint brush and with a dexterity I’d scarcely imagined possible in an animal lacking opposable thumbs, decorated the jar with the felicitation.

Doctor Watson grunted. Looking from the corner of my eye, I realised that he was stifling a laugh. So was Mister Holmes!

I was so pleased I _almost_ forgot my cue.

“While all this was happening, Piglet had gone back to his own house to get Eeyore’s balloon. He held it very tightly against himself,” Mouselet rushed from behind the curtain with a red balloon between her forepaws, “so that it shouldn’t blow away, and he ran as fast as he could.  And running along, and thinking how pleased Eeyore would be, he didn’t look where he was going, and suddenly, he fell down flat on his face.”

_BANG!_

I would’ve made a note to commend Mouselet on her physicality and timing if Mister Holmes hadn’t chosen that very moment to spring from his convalescing cocoon like a wet-winged butterfly.

All eyes in the room, human and otherwise, were on him as he shouted.

“That’s how he did it, Watson! An exploding bladder! At that distance, it would’ve sounded like a gunshot, oh, quick!”

He disappeared through the bedroom door and reemerged moments later fully-dressed and without a trace of the illness that had laid him so low for more than a fortnight.

Doctor Watson met our collective stare and shrugged.

Mister Holmes wrapped a scarf ‘round his neck and smiled at us. “Well done. You are all conductors of light tonight.”

Then he stepped forward and patted Ferret on the head, “You were splendid, my friend. Next time, a bit of _Lear_. ‘They told me I was everything: 'tis a lie, I am not ague-proof.’ Come, Watson. A man’s life is at stake!”

Doctor Watson rose and shrugged into his coat. “Bessie has your tea prepared. Candles and pink sugar cakes and all your favourites. Thank you, thank you!” he cried as he followed Mister Holmes out the door.

* * *

“So it wasn’t even his birthday?” asked Sloth, slowly licking pink sugar from his lips.

“No,” huffed the Ocelot.  

“I suppose it’s always _someone’s_ birthday,” Sloth mused. “ _Somewhere_.”

I raised my glass. “Well, to that Someone Somewhere, a very happy birthday!”

There were nods and grunts and the clinking of glassware.

“And God bless us, every one!” cried Ferret.

We all froze mid-motion and stared at him. He wrinkled his nose and shook his head and mumbled, “I know …”

I shrugged and said, “A Yuletide performance might be well-received.”

There was a moment of silence, then everyone began chattering at once.

“Oh, I want to be the ghost of Christmas Past!” said Mouselet.

“I could be Marley’s Ghost!” said the Ocelot.

“I shall be Scrooge, of course!” said Ferret.

“That hooded fellow at the end, he doesn’t have to _walk_ much, does he?” said the Sloth.

“We could do the classic tale by Mister Dickens,” I said, “but I might also pen something novel for the occasion. What do you say to that?”

“Let’s do both!” they cried.


	13. November

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rasher, the bull terrier in "The _Gloria Scott_ ," shows up on Inky's doorstep and soon sleuth, doctor, dog, and porcupine are on their way to Blythburgh to confront a demon-hound and track down a missing Victor Trevor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also since "The _Gloria Scott_ is the first Sherlock Holmes case, this is first case in which Inky and Holmes meet. 
> 
> Many thanks to [Small_Hobbit](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Small_Hobbit/pseuds/Small_Hobbit%22) for the beta.

I am rarely inspired to abandon my den or my contemplations to greet the many visitors who pass by the _Rodentia_ of the World exhibit at her Majesty’s Zoological Garden.

One autumn morning, however, I made an exception.

For a dog.

He was a bull terrier of advanced years. Bull terriers are a pugnacious breed. Bombastic and playful by nature, they often fall prey to imprudence and carelessness in wielding their considerable strength and expressing their innate _joie de vivre_. Thus, among some short-sighted creatures, they have a reputation for being aggressors.

This bull terrier, however, was neither aggressive, nor pugnacious, nor bombastic.

He was sad.

And because it is a painful to observe melancholy on a muzzle made for joy, I set aside the perennial question of whether there is anything truly heroic in the iambic pentametre and meandered to the limit of my realm—to the shrieks of the humans watching, which such a simple display of mine never fails to provoke.

“Good afternoon,” I said to the dog, with a slight bow. A new eruption of human squeals pierced the crisp autumn air. I ignored them and continued my introduction.

“My name is Inky Quill. Welcome to the _Rodentia_ of the World exhibit. You must forgive my candor. I am not a native of this land and some find my manner of speaking brusque and overly intimate.” At times, I have found that it leads to less consternation on the addressee’s part if I offer this disclaimer before treading into the choppy waters of sentiment. “It appears, my good fellow, that you are in some distress. Might I be of service?”

“I’ve lost my master!” the dog wailed.

“Oh, only that? Well, take heart, for we run a very efficient locating service here at Her Majesty’s Zoological Garden. Troops of prairie dogs operate in a system of underground tunnels that extend the full length and width of the park. They reunite, oh, I don’t know, at least half a dozen families a day. Human offspring are incorrigible when it comes to fleeing their progenitors.”

“He’s not lost here. He’s lost there. _I think Black Shuck got ‘im_!”

Black Shuck.

I confess a quiver of the quills at the name, though it was, at the time, unknown to me. Poets are by our nature no strangers to villainy and I was certain—as certain as I am that the anapest is, indeed, a pest—that Black Shuck was a villain’s moniker.

Thoughts of villainy made my mind wander down a nearby avenue, and to my great surprise, my mind and that of my visitor were traveling companions, for his next question was,

“Do you know Sherlock Holmes?”

_Do I know Sherlock Holmes?_

The question recalled another.

_Does anyone know Sherlock Holmes?_

I chastised myself severely: now was not the time for rhetoric! Or philosophy!

“Yes!” I cried. “We shall pay him a visit, and I’m certain that you will see your problem resolved and your master located forthwith.”

It cheered me to see hope spread across his conical snout.

“Good,” he said with a hearty sniff. “Now, where’s the bacon?”

* * *

“Victor Trevor has been kidnapped by a large dog,” echoed Mister Holmes at a pace much slower than the original words had been uttered.

The scene was not going well. For whatever reason, Doctor Watson’s aplomb was severely lacking.

Mister Holmes continued in the same incredulous tone. “And you know this because a _porcupine_ told you.”

“I am not in an altered state of mind!” protested Doctor Watson. “Well, no more altered than the norm, which I understand is a bit contradictory—“

Oh, we were never going to get anywhere at this rate! And time was of the essence in missing persons cases! Or so the prairie dogs have always led me to believe.

I stepped out from the spot where Doctor Watson had advised me and my canine companion to sequester ourselves for this portion of the interview.

“Good morning, Mister Holmes. My name is Inky Quill. You must forgive my candor. I am not a native of this land, and some find my manner of speaking brusque and overly intimate.”

He stared. I stared back, allowing him the moment of muteness I’ve come to expect among humans at their first encounter with so distinguished and, yes, I’m not naïve, dear readers, eccentric-looking creature as myself.

When Mister Holmes spoke, his voice was humble and polite. “That you have a manner of speaking at all is of greater interest, Mister, uh, forgive me, Mister…”

“Quill.”

“Of course.” He turned his head. “Watson? You hear it?”

“Yes.”

“All animals?”

“No, no, some. A few. A very few. A mouse, a ferret, an ocelot. There is a sloth, but I believe he mumbles…”

I answered Doctor Watson’s inquiring look with a nod.

Mister Holmes’s eyebrows rose. “The sloth mumbles,” he repeated vaguely, tapping his lips with his fingertips.

“He does,” I admitted. “Elocution and eloquence are not _always_ bedfellows.”

Accepting my words as the final on the matter, Mister Holmes nodded and, to my relief, asked a relevant question. “Now, the disappearance of Victor Trevor, how do you come by this information, Mister Quill?”

“First-hand,” I replied, pivoting and gesturing for my companion to make himself seen.

He stepped out. Mister Holmes’s eyes grew wide and his lips parted.

“Rasher,” he breathed.

The dog launched himself into Mister Holmes’s lap. “Oh, Bacon-Bones! Help! Oh, nom, nom, nom!” He wiggled and jumped and licked all available surfaces, including and especially those pertaining to Mister Holmes.

As Mister Holmes failed in his attempt to temper canine enthusiasm, he asked, “Watson, do you…?”

“No, it’s just noise. Mister Quill?”

“He’s imploring Mister Holmes’s aid. He calls him ‘Bacon-Bones.’”

Doctor Watson’s lips twitched. “He’s asking for your help.”

“Indeed. Well, this much is true:  Trevor is not in Terai. He would never leave Rasher behind.”

“He’s very recently returned,” I said. “And disappeared last night from a church, a church known for having been attacked in the distant past by a,” I hesitated, “large black demon-dog with red eyes.”

“Black Shuck!” cried Rasher, settling on his two back legs between Mister’s Holmes’s two only legs.

“Mister Rasher says that last night he witnessed this dog, this Black Shuck, chase his master into the river that runs beside the church. From there, he disappeared. Mister Rasher was deterred from any extensive searching by the continued presence of the dog. Instead, he made his way to my doorstep, and we to yours, per his master’s instruction, I might add.”

Mister Holmes’s eyebrows rose at this last statement but he seemed to file it away for further discussion at a later moment. “Black Shuck,” he said and flew to a stack of newspapers. After a cursory glance, he let each quickly slide through his fingers onto the rug. At last, he stopped. “Ah yes, a demonic ghost-dog is reported to have disturbed preparations for a harvest social in Blythburgh. He was seen about the grounds, sanctuary itself, cemetery. Attacked the vicar, too.” He hummed. “That is suggestive. Holy Trinity Church.”

Mister Holmes raised his head. He stared at the wall, then at Rasher, who was bounding about his ankles, snuffling. Then he fixed his eyes, those grey eyes as keen and penetrating as Doctor Watson describes them in his tales, on me. “You feel certain that the case warrants action?” he asked.

“I do,” I said solemnly.

“Then we must go. To Blythburgh, Watson! With missing persons, every moment is of importance. Let’s see if that amply-proportioned holdall of yours lives up to its name.” The final statement he uttered with a smirk in my direction. “Our translator can provide us with more details _en route_. And Watson?”

“Yes?”

“We _must_ have a compartment to ourselves.”

“Oh, Inky! Mightn’t, mightn’t…?” barked Rasher.

I put a tentative paw on the hem of Doctor Watson’s trouser as he rose. “Uh, Doctor Watson, do you think Mrs. Hudson would object to preparing a bit of repast for our guest? A scrap of, uh, fried swine-meat, if it’s not a bother?”

* * *

Doctor Watson and Mister Holmes looked a bit anxious when the leather holdall was finally produced, but I fitted myself meekly, if snugly, inside. When one has spent seven days underground in a coffin and popped out of a magician’s black hat, on two separate occasions, mind you, mere luggage is no obstacle.

After breakfasting on Mrs. Hudson’s superlative fried eggs and bacon, Mister Rasher was much refreshed in mind, body, and spirit, and on the way to the train station, through my leather encasement, I sought to gather as much background information as possible. He was more than eager to answer my questions.

The four of us did indeed have the first-class train compartment to ourselves and I confess a bit of hedonistic pleasure at traveling in such style. I settled myself beside Mister Rasher and opposite Mister Holmes and Doctor Watson and began to relay Mister Rasher’s tale to the two gentlemen.

“The story begins in Terai with a visitor, a man whom Mister Rasher calls a ‘Tea Man.’ Mister Trevor apparently has many such visitors, all related to his business. This Tea Man must have come from a very distant land for his scents were quite novel to Mister Rasher. Other than this, our friend noticed nothing unusual in his visit until at one point, Mister Trevor called Mister Rasher near and pried open his jaws. ‘Like this?’ he asked, tapping on one of Mister Rasher’s incisors with his finger tip. ‘Just like that, _sahib_. And, as you say, the ‘dog’s tooth’ centre is a much darker green than the rest of the stone.’ Their conversation ended soon after that, and the visitor departed. But Mister Trevor was badly shaken, for Mister Rasher says he broke with routine and shut himself up in his rooms, smoking and drinking Bad Tea until dawn.”

“Bad Tea?” queried Mister Holmes.

“I asked Mister Rasher about this. Most of the time, Mister Trevor drinks Good Tea, I suppose that is the highest grade of tea produced on the estate itself. But there are rare occasions, early in the morning hours,” I looked at my canine friend who blinked in confirmation, “when he drinks Bad Tea and looks well—“

I waved my paw and Mister Rasher made his long, melancholy face even longer and more melancholy.

“Like that,” I finished. I expected puzzlement or dismissal or further questions, but what I got, at least from Mister Holmes, was a smile.

“Ask him if the Bad Tea is kept in a grey tin with gold lettering.”

Everyone in the compartment—save Mister Holmes himself—was surprised at Mister Rasher’s bark, which even to human ears, I believe, sounded like a hearty ‘yes.’

“How on earth, Holmes—?” began Doctor Watson.

Mister Holmes waved his hand. “It is not relevant.”

“But what does it mean?” persisted Doctor Watson.

“Only that Mister Trevor is a very sentimental man. Do continue, Mister Quill.”

“Early the following morning, Mister Trevor began preparations for his immediate return to England. He said—directly to Mister Rasher when there was no one else about—‘We must make things right. We must do what _she_ would have done.’ Upon arrival in England, they travelled directly to the church and sought an appointment with the vicar, which was granted at once. This was Thursday.”

“Where did the interview take place?” asked Mister Holmes.

“In the church.”

“Were there others about?”

“Yes. Though the vicar and Mister Trevor were in a quiet corner of the church and kept their voices low, they were not, in fact, behind closed doors. Mister Rasher says there were many humans about the place, and many, many distracting smells to investigate, that’s why he did not overhear the conversation between the vicar and Mister Trevor, but he sensed that Mister Trevor was not wholly satisfied with its conclusion. After taking his leave, Mister Trevor went to the ‘stone yard,’ which I believe is, in fact, the cemetery, for Mister Rasher says he placed flowers on two stones and sat with ‘Bad Tea face’ for some time before traveling to his home.”

“Ah, ah, ah,” said Mister Holmes. The three of us waited for him to say more, but after a long pause, I realised no more was to be forthcoming, so I continued.

“On Saturday morning, Mister Trevor learned through servants of the re-appearance of Black Shuck at the church and the disturbance that the creature had caused. At once, he declared his intention to re-visit the church himself. Privately, he told Mister Rasher that he was purposefully leaving him behind, as he did not wish to risk his injury if there were truly a savage animal involved. His final words to Mister Rasher—though I think perhaps he spoke in jest at the time—were ‘if I don’t’ come back, go to see Mister Sherlock Holmes in London; this is just his kind of problem.’”

At this, Mister Rasher gave a mournful whine.

“Mister Rasher did not desire to be parted from his master, especially in light of potential danger,” I said.

“Just so!” cried Doctor Watson, giving the dog an affectionate pat on the head and scratch behind the ears. Mister Rasher’s mood shifted; he wagged his tail and licked Doctor Watson’s palm.

“So Mister Rasher followed Mister Trevor. The last leg of his journey had to be accomplished on foot, which put him far behind his master in terms of time. But he knew where he was headed. It was dark. Though at some distance, Mister Rasher could see vestiges of a celebration. Then he spotted the figure of his master hiding in some shrubbery near the entrance of the cemetery.”

“As Mister Rasher neared, there was movement on the far side of the church. He sniffed and detected the scent of a fellow canine on the wind, but he said there was human presence evident as well, at least one, and quite possibly more humans, apart from the well-known signature aroma of his master.”

“Shadows moved. Then there was the sound of something hitting earth, and Mister Trevor sprang from his hiding place, shouting.”

“Then Mister Rasher—and his master—saw the dog. Huge, black, snarling, growling. Mister Rasher raced toward his master who was also running. He followed his master as he flew at full speed through the cemetery toward the river. The black dog was between them, in clear pursuit of Mister Trevor and very close on his heels, snapping at air. Mister Rasher heard a loud splash. The canine villain stared at the water for a moment, blinking, then turned and re-focused his attack on our companion here. He chased Mister Rasher until a whistle called him back.”

“Mister Rasher waited in as near a hiding place as he could find, but his master did not appear. At dawn, he decided to follow his master’s instructions and make his way to the city.”

Mister Holmes nodded. “I may have more questions for you and Rasher later, but right now I wish to set the threads of the case—for there are several—in order. If you don’t mind, silence until we arrive.” He sat back and closed his eyes.

No one protested. Mister Rasher and I had a kip on the seats, and Doctor Watson read newspapers and smoked while Mister Holmes, I hoped, set some of his famous method about this madness.

Upon arrival, we went straight to the church, and peeking out of my hiding place in the holdall, I tell you that I was amazed. I have seen many dogs in my time, but none of them looked more like a sleuth-hound on the scent than Mister Sherlock Holmes in those moments. He was everywhere, digging in the bushes, prowling about the cemetery, and then finally nearing the river. Occasionally he would ask questions of Mister Rasher—through me—but even then, he seemed to know the answer before the inquiry was posed.

“It’s clear that he went in here,” he said, pointing to the ground with his walking stick. We followed him as he moved along the river bank towards the church. “Did you see the stones, Watson?”

“Yes, two Trevors.”

“Mother and daughter, with signs of very recent disturbances of the graves. Some of the mother’s kin were also buried there. Trevor never spoke of his mother much, but it’s evident that Blythburgh was her home. Our villains thought they were being clever in resurrecting a centuries-old legend to scare people away so that they could go about their nefarious business and no doubt place the blame for their crime on a spectral agent of the devil. They may think they have eliminated Trevor and I would agree with them, but for one thing.” He pointed to the foot of the church, where the water lapped.

“But surely, Holmes, he would not have survived; the water is frigid,” said Doctor Watson.

“I have knowledge that neither you nor our villains possess. Remember how I told you that Trevor was a ‘hearty, full-blooded fellow, full of spirit and energy’? He had all kinds of athletic tastes and one of them was swimming. And he used to challenge anyone willing to swim ~~s~~ in raging waters—the colder, the better.”

“You think he swam to safety?”

“Rasher said he left with a bag, but had no bag with him in the bushes. Where did he put it? Rasher didn’t find it. I think he came here with a plan.”

A voice called from afar. “Hey, hey! Who are you? What are you doing?”

“Distract that,” Mister Holmes paused, “churchwarden, Watson. I am going to go see a man about a rock—with a dog and a porcupine. Come, Rasher!”

At that, my world went wobbly. I curled myself in a ball and, with my whole strength, clung to the bottom of the holdall as it swung and jerked.

“Holmes!” I heard Doctor Watson huff.

“Find him, Rasher,” Mister Holmes said quietly. “I have no scent for you to follow, but you know it, just the same.”

I didn’t venture a look. It was cold and wet. I heard canine scratching and snuffling and human murmurs of encouragement and finally a loud scrape of stone.

“Well done, Rasher.”

And then it was even colder. My quills shivered and continued to shiver until I heard Rasher break into a joyous carol of barks and Mister Holmes say dryly,

“Fancy meeting you here, Trevor.”

* * *

“You really think they’ll try again? Seems rather bold and foolish,” whispered Doctor Watson as the three men were crouched some distance from the church, hidden behind a thick copse of vegetation. Darkness had fallen.

“They are single-minded _and_ simple-minded villains,” said Mister Holmes. “They’ve tried twice. My bet is that they will try again. Tonight.”

“Well, we’re ready for ‘em, aren’t we, Rasher?” Mister Trevor gave Mister Rasher a good-natured pat on the head, then added a bit nervously, “and, uh, friend.”

I prefer to limit my direct communication with humans to Doctor Watson and Mister Holmes, so I only nodded and tried to make my gaze as gentle and genial as any member of the _Rodentia_ family can.

“I know I’ve said it before Doctor Watson, but that’s a dashed unusual pet you have,” said Mister Trevor. “Extraordinarily well-trained, though, he let you paint him with that phosphorus mixture without so much as a hiss or a scratch. I wonder that you don’t mention him in your stories.”

“Who’d believe them?” he retorted.

Mister Trevor hummed. “True.” Then he sighed and looked at Mister Rasher. “Sorry again to frighten you, old boy. I’ve been in the crypt, hiding, waiting for another go at them. I came here a lot as a young boy with my mother. Her father was very good friends with the vicar at the time. I know every inch of that church—above and below ground.” He scratched Mister Rasher behind his ear. “And damned if you aren’t the sharpest dog in the world to actually go to London and find the world’s greatest detective. I know you’re clever, Holmes, but this is a bloody miracle!”

“Simple reasoning,” he replied. Doctor Watson snorted for the both of us.

“Well the villains aren’t going to win tonight, not against this army,” said Mister Trevor. “I refuse to let a couple of greedy blackguards steal Mamma’s emerald. I am going to exhume Catherine’s body—even if I have to defy the vicar and do it myself—retrieve the stone, and return it to its rightful owners.”

“For once, Watson, we are dealing with a holy gem instead of a cursed one,” said Mister Holmes.

“Mister Singh said it is the heart of the most holy relic of his people. Father must’ve got it from one of his companions on board the _Gloria Scott_.”

“Won at cards?” Mister Holmes suggested.

“That’s the supposition I’d prefer, but it was a ship of thieves, after all, so perhaps he stole it. Or he might have got it in Australia. I’ll never know how it made its way into his hands, but when he married Mummy, he gifted it to her, and she wore it as a pendant around her neck. Then, before she died, unbeknownst to me or my sister, she sewed it inside Catherine’s favourite doll. Well, when Catherine died, I was overwrought and slipped the doll into her coffin when no one was watching. A child’s logic, I thought it would comfort her. The letter from Mummy to Catherine giving the location of her inheritance was in the Japanese cabinet with the papers that told the sad history of my father. At the time of his death, those papers were the only ones that mattered; an accidentally-interred gem was the least of my preoccupations.”

“I had completely forgotten about it until Mister Singh showed up on my door, just when one of your adventures, Holmes, was the headline of a two-week-old English newspaper. He started talking about missing gems, like your case, and I knew at once the stone that he was describing. I also knew that I had to get it back to his people, to be a man who set things right.” His voice quavered at the last phrase.

Doctor Watson spoke for me when he said, “It’s an extraordinary story.”

“I’ll be a blessing for Mister Singh and his people, but a curse for _them_ ,” said Mister Trevor, pointing towards the church. “They’ve got a demon-hound? Well, we’ve got one, too. And if I may say so, ours is much more frightening.” Mister Rasher wagged his tail and licked Mister Trevor’s cheek.

“Indeed,” said Mister Holmes. “We learned a thing or two about the crafting of demon-hounds in Dartmoor, didn’t we, Watson?” Doctor Watson hummed, and Mister Holmes continued. “The local constable is hidden on the far side. Good fellow. Might recommend him to Lestrade, should he show an interest in trading country life for the yellow fog of Lon—“

“There!” breathed Mister Trevor.

“Yes,” agreed Mister Holmes. “On my cue, Rasher and Mister Quill, you know what to do.”

Doctor Watson carefully removed the hood that covered my back. Mister Rasher flattened himself to the ground, and I crawled on his back.

“Mister Quill,” said Doctor Watson. “You are also extraordinary.”

I blinked slowly as Mister Rasher and I lumbered out. A skeleton had been painted in a phosphorus mixture on Mister Rasher’s body; my quills dripped with the same glowing substance. As one beast, I suspect, we did look formidable and otherworldly.

Black Shuck appeared. He was enormous and lean to the point of gangly; I suspected he was some variation on an Irish wolfhound. Two figures of humans wielding spades also appeared.

What in theory seemed heroic, now seemed foolhardy. I began to shake with fear as Mister Holmes cautioned, “Wait, wait, wait…”

Mister Rasher’s body tense beneath me, and I dug my claws into his back.

“NOW!”

Once in motion, my fear vanished. I was a knight errant atop my noble steed, charging into battle. Mister Rasher barked and growled. I bristled. With the cold air slicing us like daggers, we raced toward the ghostly beast.

It was a beast who, after one look at us, fled the scene with a litany of whimpers.

Mister Rasher deftly altered our course and we went barreling toward the humans, who like their animal companion, were much frightened into running, their shrieks of fear joining the dog’s whines. They ran straight in the arms of the waiting constable.

Mister Rasher heard his master’s call and stopped abruptly, too abruptly, in fact, because I lost my grip and went flying forward, and the last thing I remember was a bit of Latin.

_Requiescat in pace._

* * *

 

I opened my eyes.

“Finally.”

Doctor Watson.

“You are the most unusual patient I’ve ever had, Mister Quill.”

I looked about us. We were in a first-class train compartment. By ourselves.

“Mister Rasher?” I asked.

“He is with his master. Trevor and Holmes have their own compartment.”

I do not possess eyebrows, but I raised them nonetheless.

“Trevor’s quite eager to return to India with the stone, and he and Holmes need a bit of privacy, I think. You missed quite a bit. The graverobbers were arrested. They were the churchwarden and the organist. Both married to others, they’d want to run away together for some time, and upon overhearing Trevor’s tale, thought that Providence was handing them their ticket. One of them went to London and bought the dog and set about scaring everyone away from their site of operations. And the vicar will be very cross when he discovers that the three of us took the abandoned spades and went to work while Mister Rasher kept vigil over you. Trevor recovered the emerald from his sister’s grave.”

“So it was there!” I said.

He nodded.

“You and Rasher were magnificent, by the way,” said Doctor Watson. “I believe there might be a new mythical beast among the local lore. How do you feel? Would you like some brandy? I wasn’t certain…”

“No, thank you.” I confess that I find humans’ obsession with the medicinal qualities of that spirit, well, barbaric, to be honest, but I didn’t want to insult the good doctor. “There are specialists at my residence,” I assured him. I felt a bit guilty at the slight deception. The humans that run Her Majesty’s Zoological Garden are skilled in many areas, but I prefer to put my health in the praying hands of Father Mantis and his staff. I made a note to request a home visit upon my return.

Home, the word called to me like the sirens. And for the first time since I washed up on these foreign shores, I thought of my snug London den—and not a forest some thousands of miles away—as home.

“Rest,” said Doctor Watson, as if reading my thoughts, “We’ll be home soon.”

* * *

Doctor Watson did not wake when Mister Holmes entered the compartment.

“Well done, Mister Quill,” he whispered, folding himself neatly into the seat beside me. He rubbed a hand down his long face and said,

“A very wise and very foolish man once told me, ‘ _Of all ghosts the ghosts of our old lovers are the worst_.’”

I nodded, appreciating the musical quality of the statement when spoken in Mister Holmes’s baritone.

“You are a poet, Mister Quill,” he observed.

“And you are a sleuth-hound, Mister Holmes. You are what you were fashioned to be.”

He smiled. “How do you know?”

“I know because I saw you on the scent. Then there’s the nose that Providence has seen fit to bestow upon your face. How do you know I’m a poet?”

“Because that same Providence has fitted you with a multitude of writing implements on your back. Will you write a poem about this?”

“Naturally. A ballad, I think. The Ballad of Black Shuck.”

“I should very much like to hear it one day.”

“It would be my pleasure to provide a personal recitation,” I replied.

We passed the rest of the journey in silence; each, I think, very much lost in his own thoughts.

And so, kind readers, I arrived in London, said good-bye to friends, new and old, and headed straight for my small corner of the world. Upon hearing my tale, Father Mantis immediately turned chartreuse and prescribed a fortnight of adventure-less existence. His cadre of skilled assistants outfitted me with several rich-smelling herbal compresses for my sore body and one sweet elixir for my sore spirit. So, here I am, huddled with my words, shaping my ballad, and generally being ‘not at home’ to anyone. Any creatures, melancholy or otherwise, who pass through the _Rodentia_ of the World Exhibit must be content with my resting profile and no more for many days to come.

And so, until next month, I remain,

Your humble servant,

Inky Quill


	14. Inky's Poetry Journal:  The Ballad of Black Shuck

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Inky's ballad related to his November column.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More about [Black Shuck](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Black_Shuck).

Upon the eve of harvest feast

arose a demon-hound

to prowl and howl, to pace, lay waste

and paw at sacred ground.

 

With fur as black as starless night

and eyes as red as blood,

with teeth like daggers drawn in haste

and claws caked thick with mud,

 

the ghost of yore did burst the door

and leave a demon mark,

then charge the nave and fell two brave

and vanish into dark.

 

The steeple tottered on its perch,

then crumbled through the roof,

whilst demon-beast lay siege below

 _sans_ hindrance or reproof.

 

In such a likeness, Devil’s fiend

appeared ago, again,

to snap and snarl, to shriek and scare

and spur the Dark Lord’s reign.

 

To guard a pair of greedy souls,

his task, his work, his charge

to shield their thieving, reaving plan,

their sacrilege writ large.

 

With fear as strong as canine jaws,

the tale spread far and wide

to every kitchen, stable, field

throughout the countryside.

 

One saw beyond the lore made new,

One guessed the true intent,

One rushed to foil a plan, a ghost,

a scheme to circumvent

 

The stalwart pup refused to stay

while master faced the foe.

He followed close, at heel, at wheel,

assured of where to go.

 

Too late to aide his master’s plight

against the demon-hound,

the search for court of last appeal

led him to London-town.

 

A chance encounter sped the way

to doctor, poet, sleuth,

to master found, to ghost unbound,

to villainy and truth.

 

And there above the graves of old

one monster met another,

four eyes, four legs, aglow, spiked head

a creature like no other.

 

The country folk still whisper low

about that harvest feast,

when evil’s shield did whimper, yield.

to justice-wielding beast.


	15. December

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Inky's avant-garde Christmas play flops, he finds empathy in an unusual source.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the same universe as my WAdvent fic [Compliments of the Season](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5403194/chapters/19976968%22). For the monthly Holmes_Minor December prompt: gift

“Mister Quill.”  
  
I was at home to no one, but a pleasant baritone at an hour when the gates of Her Majesty’s Zoological Garden were most assuredly closed to visitors prompted me to reconsider.  
  
“Mister Holmes.”  
  
“Would you care to join me for a drink?”  
  
“I deduce that Doctor Watson is occupied this evening.”  
  
“He is taking part in a shared ambulatory seizure with musical accompaniment.”  
  
“Caroling?”  
  
“That is the provincial term. Whiskey-and-soda?”  
  
“I have no taste for whiskey.”  
  
“Neither do I, but Watson equates its consumption and tolerance with certain, shall we say, desirable aspects of character. Just soda?”  
  
I nodded.

* * *

Mister Holmes tut-tutted. “And then?”  
  
“And then, at the most delicately-wrought moment of the drama, when the mouse—“  
  
“Representing humility,” he interjected.  
  
I nodded. “—rides upon the back of the lobster—“  
  
“Symbolising the powerful currents of nature.”  
  
“—across the stage holding the scroll inscribed with the yuletide blessings of peace, joy, health, and happiness—“  
  
“Inscribed in English?”  
  
“In French, my good man! Well, at that moment, they stopped throwing tomatoes and began throwing hard-boiled eggs!”  
  
“Heavens!”  
  
“Chaos erupted, the cast mutinied, well, all save Ferret, who was gobbling up as many of the projectiles as possible whilst in a lobster costume, and the audience chased me out of the theatre!”  
  
"A playwright is not without honour, save in his own country, and in his own house, Mister Quill.”  
  
“I am heartened that you chose that verse and not the one about pearls and swine, for Mister Peccary not only did an estimable job as a maniacal Christmas pudding, he also extended to me warm compliments of the season—immediately prior to stampeding for the egress, of course. But what honour, Mister Holmes? I face laughter  and pitying looks wherever I go. I even spotted a  _ very _ unflattering caricature of me scratched on a rock in the flamingo pool!”  
  
“I have suffered it all, Mister Quill, at the hands of Scotland Yarders, except, perhaps, the eggs and tomatoes, though quite a few would’ve jumped at the chance. You must not lose heart. Lick your wounds and launch yourself back into the fracas. Though risible today, tomorrow you may be something entirely different.”  
  
He leaned forward and unfolded a newspaper. The headline exclaimed:  __ THE GREAT SHERLOCK HOLMES SAVES THE DAY!  
  
We finished our drinks in companionable silence, then I bid him good night.

* * *

On an evening of the following week, I discovered my den had been trespassed in my absence. My quills bristled until I saw that nothing had been taken, but rather that something had been left behind.   
  
A card.  
  
A card with a breath-takingly beautiful rendering of a mouse, riding on a lobster, holding a scroll inscribed ‘ _ paise, joie, santé, bonheur.’ _  
  
On the blank side, it bore a handwritten message: _ Art begets art. _  
  
My heart swelled, and my paw longed for a pen.  
  
And thus, kind readers, I am once again your humble servant,  
  
Inky Quill


	16. Inky's Poetry Journal: Fruitful Verse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mrs. Hudson was kind enough to lend me the use of her kitchen (and her opposable thumbs) to prepare a most auspicious dessert, the epiphany tart, for presentation with this verse on this felicitous occasion and so I humble submit:

_To Mister Holmes, a bit of fruitful verse on this the anniversary of your birth._

 

Dark

crimson

drupe is the

education

of Sherlock Holmes. They

dangle in clusters; each

bears stone heart of scholarship,

fleshy pulp of experience.

The most upright branch casts a shadow

on the steepest spire of philosophy

whilst the lowest bower dips to anoint

itself in forgotten slum water.

The fruit is sweet. The fruit is sour.

The fruit is wild, to bend

the limbs low. Such is

the good and proper

education

of the great

Sherlock

Holmes.

A

golden

orb is the

fidelity

of Sherlock Holmes. Held

in two cupped palms, it shines

like a beacon, sustains like manna.

Much longed for, sought, even dreamt of,  

through observation, experiment,

investigation, pillage and plunder,

both city and countryside, friend and foe,

text and telegram rent asunder

in holy, fev’rish pursuit of

that which hath no substitute.

The fidelity of

the great Sherlock Holmes

is and was and

shall ever

be to

truth.

The

charms of

Sherlock Holmes,

like his virtues,

are unequal: ripe,

velvet-skinned, cherub-plump

wit to amuse, enliven;

musicality to delight;

art in the blood manifesting in

strange and wondrous forms, both clinging and free.

The remorse of Sherlock Holmes is a clump

of seedy, bee-bitten, port-coloured

berries. Too rare to be hidden,

too sharp to be sweet, far too

telling to be false, borne

of ego and pride,

begetting both

bowed head and

bended

knee.

The

esteem

of Sherlock

Holmes rests in

a brimming basket

of sweet-scented rubies for

the clever, loyal, quick and true,

once bestowed, then preserved in sugared

memory like a late summer’s embrace.

Mysteries, puzzles, in a silent dog

or a misplaced hat, in ancient text,

modern cipher; in a song scratched

on paper or coaxed from strings;

the smoke of a new pipe;

the weight of old silk;

Watson. These are

the great loves

of the great

Sherlock

Holmes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poetic form: octuplet etheree
> 
> Greenaway's _The Language of Flowers_ gives the following meanings: cherry (good education); plum (fidelity); peach (your qualities like your charms are unequal); raspberry (remorse); and strawberry (love and esteem); the tart also contains blackberry and blueberry preserves.


	17. January

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A flock of tits try to evict Inky. 
> 
> Warning for thinly-veiled political commentary.

Perhaps because I spent much of this bitterly cold January in quiet reflection—and digestion, for I did consume a more than ample portion of Mister Holmes’s birthday tart—I looked upon a recent change to the landscape of her Majesty’s Zoological Garden with far less alarm and suspicion than, in retrospect, it warranted.

I peeked out from my cosy den to investigate an unusual noise. The words of my countryman Henry David Thoreau sprang to mind as I observed the sign to the exhibit where I reside being lowered and replaced by another. “Beware of endeavors that require new clothes,” I murmured to myself.

“ _Rodentia_ of the World” was no longer the banner of welcome. It was now “Rodents of the Empire.”

“Well, well,” I said before giving an American rendition of an English tut-tut and sinking back into winter’s slumber.

* * *

I was awakened by a flock of tits.

“Mister Quill!” they chirruped.

“Yes?” I replied, lumbering to the entrance of my den.

“This exhibit is under new administration. All residents must be species endemic to the Empire.”

“Let’s see, my homeland was, at one time, under British rule. Of course, the land itself belongs to no humans, save those who care for it and treat it with dignity. The Chippewa, for example, or the Menominee—“

“You are not a species endemic to the Empire! You must leave!”

“Nonsense! You can’t evict me from my home!”

“You have until sunrise. This area is being re-purposed.”

“Re-purposed?” I shuddered, then bristled. “I shan’t be dictated to by a flock of tits!”

“We aren’t tits!”

“You most certainly are!”

“We are grouse.”

“Oh.” I rubbed my eyes and, with sleep’s crust removed, saw that they were, indeed, grouse.

“Until sunrise!” they exclaimed ere they flew out of sight.

* * *

“I suppose I shall have to find other lodgings,” I said as I tidied my papers.

“There’s the lumber room of 221B,” said Mouselet with a grimace.

“Who wants an exhibit of rodents that human visitors have already seen? It makes no sense! They’re just tits,” grumbled Ferret.

“Grouse,” I corrected as I progressed to sealing jars of ink. “Or, perhaps, it is a sign that I should return to my native land, that I am not welcome here.”

“Do you want to go home, Inky?” asked Mouselet.

I looked at my books and papers and my jars of ink and sighed. “I _am_ home.”

“Then you must fight,” said Ferret firmly.

“I am a poet! Pen, not sword,” I protested.

“You’re going to need both,” said Ferret. “Mouselet, go tell the Ocelot. Inky, let’s go around to your neighbours and ask for help.”

“It’s cold!” I cried.

“It’s going to get colder if those tits have their way,” said Ferret.

“Grouse,” I groused.

* * *

But he was correct, of course.

The cry came at sunrise.

“Mister Quill!”

I strode to the entrance of my den and declared,

“This is my home. I shall not be moved. This is my friend, Ferret. He’s an English ferret. This is my other friend, Mouselet. She is an English mouse. This is my friend, the Ocelot, he is—”

I frowned.

“Hungry,” said the Ocelot, squinting at the birds and licking his lips. “I mean, Hungarian.”

“A Hungarian ocelot," I continued. "We all live and work together in harmony. We are stronger because of our differences.”

“And what’s more,” said the Ocelot, donning his spectacles and flipping open a heavy tome. “You, that is to say, red grouse may be considered your own species, _Lagopus scotica_ , but you may also be considered a subspecies of the willow ptarmigan, _Lagopus lagopus_ , which is found in Scandinavia, Siberia as well as Canada. So, I might ask you,” he shut the book with a loud thud and stepped toward the flock, growling, “ _of just what empire are you emissaries?!_ ”

The birds twittered and shrunk into a tight, feathered mass. As the Ocelot lunged, a sound as I’d never heard erupted.

_WHEEEE!_

Every head turned, and looming on the horizon, appeared an animal to make even the most ferocious, most tenacious quiver. The very earth shook.

Elephant.

The grouse stilled, but for a moment too long.

The Ocelot was the first to shake off the spectacle. With a single leap, he was upon the birds while, in the distance, the pachyderm laid waste to the “The Rodents of the Empire” sign.

With the wooden banner reduced to splinters, the enormous creature stepped in my direction. I rushed past the bloody scene of the Ocelot feasting and greeted the newcomer.

“Hello, my name is Inky Quill. You must forgive my candor. I am not a native of this land and some find my manner of speaking brusque and overly intimate.”

“I know exactly who you are, Mister Quill,” said the elephant. “Your manner of speaking interests me little. It is your manner of writing of which I am quite fond. I write my own poetry, in fact.”

“Ah, a fellow bard.”

“Yes, I heard of your dilemma and thought I might offer some assistance.”

“They might return,” I said, turning to see the Ocelot picking his teeth with thin bone, “well, not those particular creatures, but, ah, birds of their feather.”

“Well, feel free to call upon me again. If they come for you, they will, in time, come for all of us, and we must show them, if necessary by force, that all are welcome here. Unfortunately, some of their kind do not respond to compassionate pleas or rational argument or even poetry,” said the elephant. He waved his long snout toward the rising sun, “I live in that far exhibit, but perhaps—“

“Yes?”

“You could visit one evening. We could share verse. The winter nights are so dreary for those accustomed to the sun.”

“It would be my pleasure. Thank you, friend.” I gave a bow and touched my paw to his proffered snout.

“Kedar,” said the elephant, flapping his great ears.

“Thank you, Mister Kedar.”

“Just Kedar, but, I think” he mused, “I should like it very much if you called me ‘Mister.’

And with a wink of a eye, he sauntered back from whence he came.

And so, my gentle readers, I am still a resident of Her Majesty’s Zoological Garden, but now every seventh evening finds me enjoying the company and wisdom and art of my new friend Mister Kedar. I have learned a great deal from him and our time together has kept the worst of winter’s sorrow away.

I wish the same respite for you all.

And until next time, I remain,

Your humble servant,

Inky Quill


	18. Inky's Poetry Journal: The Cupid-Poet's Lament on the Day of Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The cupid-poet's lament, in the form of an Italian sonnet, on the day of love.

Today’s the day when lovers speak of love,

describe, declare, themselves, aloud, a-versed,

and poet, lover find their roles reversed.

The lover longs for wit and fruits thereof.

The poet pleads, whilst casting eyes above,

if for a day, a muse less dream-immersed,

who lives apart from inkwell, page accursed,

a hand to slip inside the word-sewn glove.

 

The poet lends his verse to lover’s woo,

aware that heart’s desire will go unmet,

resigned to fate until a new day looms.

But muse, once rebuffed, may not be true

to poet’s pen. And thus, with much regret,

the poet’s year of courting muse resumes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For my Get Your Words Out BINGO card square VERSE.


	19. February

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Inky meets his doppelgänger: a crude limericist named Awesome.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For my LJ Get Your Words Out BINGO square: doppelganger.

For an expatriate, gestures are one of the more inscrutable parts of the host culture. For example, a few weeks ago, I was _en route_ to a meeting with friends when my path was blocked by a monkey, he of the organ grinder variety, though his doll-sized clothes were sailor’s garb. His chatter was interspersed with raucous laughter and—to me—puzzling hand movements, but he posed no threat, or so it seemed, and vanished as quickly as he appeared.

When I reached my destination, I recounted the experience to my companions. Mouselet sputtered and turned the bright pink of a half-eaten birthday cake candle. Ferret collapsed on the floor in a fit of convulsive laughter. Only the Ocelot seemed nonplussed. He donned his spectacles with gravitas and took me aside to explain in the manner of a trusted family physician about to impart some unpleasantness.

“But that’s vulgar!” I exclaimed, once enlightened.

“Most,” he agreed.

I frowned. “But I could have sworn he called me ‘awesome.’ Perhaps I misheard.”

“Well,” said the Ocelot, removing his spectacles and looking even more thoughtful. “Think of it this way, Inky: if you were to successfully perform the act suggested, it might be considered ‘awesome’ in certain circles.”

“Circles of perversion!” I cried.

His reply was cryptic, but oddly satisfying. “There are more universes in the celestial sphere and earthly plane than you and I can fathom, my dear Inky.”

I thought no more of it until the following week when a curious creature wandered into the _Rodentia_ of the World exhibit at Her Majesty’s Zoological Garden.

Night had blanketed my humble home when I heard the grunting.

“Hey, hey, Quill! You here?”

I emerged from my den. “Are you referring to me, sir? My name is Inky Quill. Please excuse—“

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, whatever. You’re Quill.” He smacked his gums. “Folks been playin’ me for a sucker. We ain’t look nothing alike.”

“Excuse me?”

“This chick come up on me today, chippin’ and chirpin’ about my pretty sonnet.”

“A chick?”

“A chickadee, a bird, a bit of feathers with the wiggle-waggle in the waggle-wiggle, don’tcha know?”

“Oh, yes,” I said, not knowing in the least. My visitor continued his tale and his smacking.

“I said, ‘Sweetheart, you got the wrong rat. I’m a song and dance man. A bit of the ol’ shuffle off to the buffalo. And a pop of the ol’ Bob’s your uncle-in-the-ol'-skunkle’ But she wouldn’t listen, the bird. And she said,” he screwed up his face, “’Thank you, Mister Inky Quill.’ And I thought, well, if that don’t beat all. Ever since I rolled into town, folks been callin’ me quill this and quill that, and here I am thinkin’ it’s just the way they greet a fella and on account’a I’m so damn sharp. But that ain’t it. They sayin’ it ‘cause they think I’m _you_.”

“But, my dear sir, we bear very little resemblance to one another—“

“And that’s just what I’m saying to myself right about now.”

“Although we are both—“

“Rats? Yeah.”

“American,” I corrected. “You, sir, a marsupial, not a rodent at all.”          

“Whatever. Looks like a rat, rhymes ‘bing-a-bang’ with a ‘wing-a-wang’ like a rat, then I guess it’s a rat. Big, small, pointy, flat. Folks here ain’t whatcha call discriminatin’, is they?”

“There are very superficial similarities, I suppose, to the unobservant,” I acknowledged. “You are…?”

“Awesome.”

I begged to differ, but propriety prevented me from voicing that opinion. “Be that as it may, your name is Mister—?”

“No ‘Mister,’ Mister. Just Awesome.”

“Oh, I see. So, your name is Awesome and you are a…”

“Possum. Awesome Possum!”                           

“Oh, of course, now did I understand earlier that you compose verse as well?

“Ha, you’re pulling my tail, Quill. You can’t tell me you never heard a ‘The bear from Nantucket’? Awesome Possum’s got the filthiest limericks in the city!” He chortled. “There once was a bear from Nantucket—“

Propriety also forbids me to go further, but I cannot say that the remainder of the encounter wasn’t fruitful. I invited Mister Awesome into my den for a nightcap, and he proceeded to consume every single edible in my larder. He imparted the definitions of a myriad of crude gestures and idioms of the English language and culture—as well as quite a few that I believe he crafted himself and wished to propagate—and I taught him several less crude phrases that rhyme with ‘Nantucket.’

And now when monkeys or rats or any other creature of the darker realms of this great metropolis salute me in the street, I nod and tip my non-existent hat and reply,

“Thank you. And so’s your mother.”

And, thus, I remain until next time, gentle readers, your humble servant,

Inky Quill


	20. March

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Inky follows a rainbow.

I trust that my generous readers will forgive the brevity of this missive. I am once again under the care of Father Mantis, my personal physician, after sustaining mild injuries during my latest adventure. Luckily, I have a new novel awaiting my perusal: a first edition of _The Life and Opinions of Tristam Shandy, Gentleman_ by Mister Laurence Sterne, and as I am a gentleman, or rather gentle-rodent, I am looking forward to keeping myself ‘quiet and still and out of trouble’—doctor’s orders—for the next week.

I shall begin at the end.

When I awoke, gold coils were piled all around me. Indeed, I believed myself to have died and gone to some dragon’s horde or pharaoh’s tomb. Then I heard a voice, human and familiar.

“Well done, Mister Quill. You have a single-handedly, or rather quad-pawedly, found the warehouse of the notorious Dublin gang. This mountain of loot is the only evidence Lestrade will need. Oh, here he comes. Watson, quick, put Mister Quill in the holdall before the police arrive.”

Mister Sherlock Holmes was on the scene, and I was being scooped up, exchanging a dazzling alchemist’s bed for a snug dark berth.

There were shouts and scurrying, which grew fainter. Finally, I heard Doctor Watson’s voice addressing me in hushed tones,

“Whatever were you doing, Inky?”

“I was following the rainbow. I wanted to see where it ended.”

Doctor Watson snorted. “Are you certain you weren’t chasing a leprechaun?”

It was my turn to snort. “I did attend that lecture on Irish culture yesterday, Doctor Watson, and they were quite dismissive of the lore surrounding that creature. No, we’ve had such a harsh winter, when I saw the rain, then the sun, I thought, well, I was so sorely tempted. I did think, for just a moment, that there might be a treasure at the end.”

“And there was, a pot of gold.”

“And once I started my journey, I felt compelled to finish it.”

“Thank goodness that Holmes spotted you from our hansom cab. You did have a peculiar look, and he decided to follow you. Good instincts, him and you.”

“The rainbow ended here, atop this building. I climbed up and crawled through a broken window. It was such a fantastical sight, I slipped right into the loot!”

“And knocked your head rather hard.”

“Mister Quill, your finder’s fee,” said Mister Holmes, slipping a dusty tome beside me, “Lestrade thinks it’s just a ‘dirty old book’ but I think you’ll find it much more and to your liking. Unless you’d like a bit of the gold.”

I shook my head, then groaned at the ache the motion produced. “I’m done chasing rainbows. And words, in the proper order, are much better than gold.”

And so I wish to each and every one of my dear readers on this day: a rainbow, a bit of treasure of your very own, and a very happy feast of Saint Patrick.

Your humble servant,

Inky Quill

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy St. Patrick's Day!


	21. Inky's Poetry Journal: Evening light

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Blank verse.

Evening light

on

evening flight

of a city bird to its daub-and-grime roost

reminds a country-bred gander

on his evening meander

that he is home.

 

Evening light

on

evening kite

of a city bird on its way home

reminds a forest-bred creature

of spindly feature

that he is home.

 

Evening light

on

evening plight

of a city bird in search of the night's haven, home:

follow the stiff-trotting goose

or the strangely-skewered noose--

surely the latter will patter towards welcoming loam.


	22. Inky's Poetry Journal: Easter sonnet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> English sonnet

On Easter morn, the yellow daffodils

announce a world reborn in dawn and dew

with trumpeting cries and heralding trills,

proclaiming hope and faith and love anew.

 

The lilies, too, rejoice triumphantly

in stone mislaid and prophecy fulfilled,

in winter’s thaw and hum of bumblebee,

their fragrant bliss upon the breeze distilled.

 

The day’s own blessing falls like gentle rain,

anointing wicked, worshipful the same.

For grace and Nature’s boon twixt gem and grain

distinguish not, no matter title, name.

 

All eyes behold the beauty that astounds

when heads, like blooms, all bear their Pascal crowns.


	23. April

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Inky gets a shock when he goes to hear the Queen's Easter address.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> References to the sonnet in the previous chapter.

I hope my monthly missives have given an accurate impression of relations between humans and animals in society. Save for encounters with Doctor Watson and Mister Holmes, which though frequent in occurrence and intense in nature, were usually brief in duration, I keep company with other animals or my muse. I rarely interest myself in the news and novelties of humans, beyond their implications for verse and rhyme, but other _Marylebone Monthly Illustrated_ staff are quite the opposite.

And so, the Ocelot invited me to accompany him and rest the staff to hear the Queen’s Easter address. He said the speech might be interesting from both literary and cultural perspectives. The timing of the invitation was fortuitous because I was being held prisoner by a villanelle that I had been working on for some weeks and was quite eager for some fresh air.

It was a lovely Sunday morning when the five of us found ourselves perched on or hanging from a sturdy tree branch. The Ocelot followed the politics of humans quite closely, as did Sloth. Ferret was more interested in the general pageantry of the event, and Mouselet was quite keen on the fashion.

I was there for the words.

Of which there were many. So many, in fact, and in such a rolling, rambling tone, that my eyelid grew heavy and my head began to sag.

As my eyes closed, I noted Mister Holmes and Doctor Watson in the crowd of humans standing just beneath the branch. Doctor Watson appeared to be in a state similar to my own.

I woke when a regal voice from afar said,

“…as the great English poet said, ‘ _On Easter morn, the yellow daffodils/announce a world reborn in dawn and dew/with trumpeting cries and heralding trills, proclaiming hope and faith and love anew_.’ Some lovely words from our national treasure, may he rest in peace, on this beautiful spring morning. He reminds us that ‘ _The lilies, too, rejoice triumphantly/in stone mislaid and prophecy fulfilled’ and so dear ladies and gentlemen_ …”

Four sets of animal eyes were on me.

Then Ferret burst out laughing and fell out of the tree.  He landed on Doctor Watson.

“Inky?” queried the Ocelot as pandemonium broke out below. Doctor Watson shouted at Ferret. Ladies screamed about a giant rat falling from the sky. Mister Holmes looked perturbed at, well, everyone.

“I’m not a great English anything! Or dead!” I protested. “How did my sonnet find its way into a queen’s speech?!”

You read it yesterday at the Whiskers & Words Easter tea,” said the Ocelot.

“I had the original and a copy in my waistcoat pocket,” I said.“

“We had tea at the Zoo,” said Sloth, “instead of the bookstore because of the garden was so lovely.”

“Perhaps someone overheard,” suggested Mouselet.

“How bizarre!” I said. “But to think, my words being spoken by a queen.”

“But Inky,” the Ocelot donned his spectacles, “the party responsible must not have read the whole sonnet.”

“Why not?”

“It’s a bit free-thinking, not something a monarch would find suitable.”

Sloth, who has an eidetic memory, recited, “ _For grace and Nature’s boon twixt gem and grain/_

_distinguish not, no matter title, name_.’”

“That only makes the situation more curious,” I said.

What little crowd remained beneath the tree vanished when the Ocelot leapt gracefully from the branch. He approached Mister Holmes and they stood, heads inclined toward one another, for a few moments.

Then Mister Holmes paled. He thanked the Ocelot quickly and bent his lips to Doctor Watson’s ear. The two men hurried away.

In a nutshell, an assassination attempt was foiled and I have vowed to pay much more careful attention to the humans that ‘keep’ the zoo. Mister Holmes was offered a knighthood for his efforts, which he refused saying it was ‘animal instinct’ and not his superior intelligence that alerted him to the danger.

And so, my readers, sometimes animals interfere in the world of humans for good and sometimes humans interfere in the world of animals for harm and sometimes a ferret falls from the sky and sometimes a poet saves a queen.

And I will remain, until next month, your humble servant,

Inky Quill 


	24. Inky's Poetry Journal: Portmanteau

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Title: Portmanteau  
> Rating: Gen  
> Length: 140  
> Content Notes: Inky, Mouselet, and Ferret  
> Summary: A scene at 221b.  
> Author's Note: A couple of weeks ago the word of the day was portmanteau. I liked it so much, I wrote a small scene around it. Also for the LJ Holmes Minor comm monthly prompt: renewal.

“…but, Inky, how?” asked Mouselet.  
  
“Well, my dear, sometimes inspiration is like rain in the desert, the earth is parched, the spirit too dry for anything fruitful to take hold; sometimes, however, it is like a stream, renewing as winter snows thaw; sometimes—“   
  
“No, I mean how do you compose poems on so many subjects? I have only one: _my dear Inspector, who is so clever_ —“   
  
“Ah, well, you must observe the world around you as Mister Holmes advises,” I tilted my head, “listen to…”   
  
I began to compose aloud. 

_Hark, I hear a cry!_

_From the corner, that portmanteau…_

_…it commences low…_

_…but begins to grow…_

_…’til ‘tis sforzando!_

  
“Oh, that’s Ferret! He’s trapped inside Doctor Watson’s travel desk!”


	25. Inky's Poetry Journal: Mother's Garden

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A Mother's Day sonnet.

A-blossom is the lovely clematis

of mother’s stone-paved garden. Violet blooms

salute the sun from stalk and dowel lattice,

recall a steadfast faith when hardship looms.

 

The golden coronilla also glows,

rebounds and thrives in wake of soggy start.

Like pride that shines when strength surmounts dark woes,

success doth crown the wishes, bless the heart.

 

The pansies never trumpet, herald, climb,

but Solomon’s robes did pale in splendor.

Their colours speak of Nature’s pow’r sublime,                 

philosopher’s thoughts and artist’s tender.

 

But Providence did never make a flow'r

more radiant than she who tends the bow'r.


	26. May

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Inky and Awesome the Possum and Mother Sloth help to uncover a daughter up to no good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by a [true story](http://www.livescience.com/56485-porcupine-quill-pokes-hole-in-aorta.html) of an Australian woman who ingested a porcupine quill that pierced her aorta.

There are moments of convergence in life that do suggest a divine plan. I was witness to one just last week. Sloth and Mother Sloth were visiting to discuss plans for their Mother’s Day tea. I had composed a sonnet for the occasion.

They had arrived by a dog cart painted to look like Her Majesty’s Zoological Garden staff wheelbarrow. Though they themselves were not capable of swift motion, the Sloths did appreciate it in others.

I can’t say that I originally gave the human pushing the wheeled chair outside my den much thought, save that it was late afternoon and the Garden was soon to close its doors to visitors for the evening.

Then I heard a voice.

“I. Q.! Hey, Queue-y Baby, where ya at?”

The Sloths’ eyes widened.

“From one’s countrymen, one may permit informal manners of address that would seem untoward from others,” I said. “Mister Awesome is an opossum.”

“Hey, Inky-Baby. Oh, ya got company. Hey, how ya doin’? Awesome’s the name. Hey, momma!”

“Goodness!” exclaimed Mother Sloth when Awesome’s swishing tail caught her about the hindquarters.

Sloth looked alarmed and set about placing himself between his mother and Awesome, but of course, it was a protracted defence.

“Inky, you got bubble,” said Awesome.

“Bubble?”

“Bubble like trouble, podjo. That two-footer pushing the not-as-sweet-as-you momma,” he winked at Mother Sloth; she hiccupped, “in the chair, she just nabbed one your jab-you-in-the-eyes.”

“A quill?” asked Sloth.

“Humans often desire them as souvenirs. If they are no longer attached to me, I can hardly lay claim to them.”

“I know trash, Inky,” said Awesome.

“Rubbish,” said Sloth.

“Yeah, any whicha way, it stinks. And I got a nose for stinkin’. And that chickadee ain’t no petunia. Oh, here she comes. I’m gonna follow ‘em, just to see if I’m right. Catch ya later, doll.”

Another wink for Mother Sloth and he was gone.

“I apologise for the disturbance—“

“He’s right, Inky,” said Mother Sloth. “The older woman in the chair was obviously a blood relation of the woman pushing. Perhaps the older woman’s sight—“

“Or indeed her mind, Mother,” added Sloth.

“—are not strong, but the bouquet in her hands.” Mother Sloth looked at her son. “Would you ever give me a gum cistus?”

“It means ‘I die tomorrow,’ Inky,” said Sloth.

* * *

I welcomed the sound of Awesome’s smacking that night.

“Inky, ya not gonna believe it! Ding-a-dong-a-long wrong!”

“Should we inform Sherlock Holmes?”

“Who?”

“He’s a detective.”

“Yeah, why not? ‘Cause that poor momma might not see the bobbin’ robin catch his next worm, ya know?”

We went to Baker Street upon which Mrs. Hudson said there wasn’t enough gin in the world and retired for the evening.

Doctor Watson was in residence. I acted as interpreter.

“She tried to force her mother to eat the quill in her porridge?” he repeated.

I nodded. “And the older woman was not compliant, so the daughter’s effort was frustrated. Mister Awesome feels there is a strong possibility that the daughter will try to harm her mother again.”

Mister Holmes entered. His eyes widened.

“Well, don’t he beat the bear from Nantucket,” said Awesome.

“Can your friend lead us to the home?” asked Doctor Watson.

I nodded.

Doctor Watson looked up. “The game’s afoot, Holmes.”

* * *

 

"And so, we arrived just in time to prevent another, less sophisticated attempt,” I said to those seated around Sloth’s lavish table the following Sunday.

“Was it likely,” the Ocelot mused, “that ingesting the quill would have resulted in the old woman’s death?”

“There has been a case, or so Mister Holmes informed me, of a quill puncturing the human esophagus and then piercing the heart. A relevant clipping from Australian newspaper was in the daughter’s possession.”

Everyone put a paw to their throat and grimaced.

“But enough grim tales, we are here to celebrate the lovely Mother Sloth,” I said.

All heads turned toward the end of the table.

The tea was lovely and the only additional item worth mentioning is that Mother Sloth entrusted me with a handsomely-tied bundle of delicacies for ‘that spirited Mister Awesome.’

So until our paths cross again,

I remain,

your humble servant,

Inky Quill


	27. Plague Doctor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Title: Plague Doctor  
> Length: 221b  
> Rating: Gen  
> Notes: Inky Quill, Doctor Watson  
> Summary: Doctor Watson borrows Inky’s Plague Doctor mask.  
> Author’s Note: For the fffc r17.12 prompt: Masquerade.

I recognised the voice, but for Doctor Watson to appear in my humble corner of the _Rodentia of the World_ exhibit at this hour, when the gates of Her Majesty’s Zoological Garden were certainly locked to visitors could only mean danger.   
  
“Yes?” I called anxiously.   
  
“Might I borrow your Plague Doctor mask for the evening, the one you wore when you tried to [hynoptise me ](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6848800/chapters/16813759)as _Il Medico della Peste_?”   
  
“Certainly. One moment.” I fetched it and lumbered towards the fence. “Are you attending a masquerade ball?”    
  
“No, no. Mister Holmes has an impish habit of practical joking. I mean to return fire, as it were. I shall hide behind the door whilst he’s out and jump out and scare him upon his return. Oh, he shall be such a jolly sight!” he laughed.   
  
I handed him the mask and wished him the best, but did not rest easy, and in a few hours’ time heard my name again.   
  
“Oh, Doctor Watson,” I sighed, noting bruised eye and the bandage peeking out from the brim of his hat.    
  
“Mister Holmes was unfortunately accompanied by Mrs. Hudson carrying the supper tray. It was a success, of sorts; they were surprised, violently surprised. I’m dining at Simpson’s tonight. Alone.” He returned the mask. “Lamentably, the Plague Doctor proved rather a bother.” 


	28. June

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Inky battles another poet.

“Mister Quill?”

I confess that I did not readily place the voice that afternoon. It turned out to be that of a new friend, the lovely [Aemilia Vole](http://archiveofourown.org/works/10963446). She was just outside the entrance to my den.

“Miss Vole, please, do come in,” I urged. “How nice to see you.”

Upon crossing the threshold, she dispensed with the unusual pleasantries and spoke quite frankly for a rodent of her years and station.

“Mister Quill, I am here because I am disturbed by a poet.”

“It is the poet Shelley? He disturbs me greatly.”

She blinked and I could tell by her bewildered shake of the head that there was a swell of strong emotion just beneath the calm exterior.

“Forgive me, my dear,” I said quickly. “Please explain. Who is this bard that disturbs you?”

“He’s an owl.”

I hummed thoughtfully. “An owl? I know no troubadours among the Strigiforme order. Pray begin your tale at the beginning.”

“A few days of the week, I visit the shop of a certain human milliner who, how shall I say, has gone down in the world. She works by the river, amidst laundresses and seamstresses and tailors in similar situations. Her eyesight is failing her, the dear. Sometimes I help her, and, well, many times she leaves behind the most wonderful scraps of felt and silk and velvet.”

“Which you use to craft your own hats,” I remarked.

“Yes. Well, yesterday evening I was at the shop, collecting scraps, when in swooped an owl. Such a large, imposing creature as I’d never seen before, at least not so close! And, well, you know their appetites, so I very well trembled for my life.”

“And very right you were, my dear.”

“But he didn’t want to eat me.”

“No?”

“He wanted me to make him a hat, a top hat.”

“A top hat for an owl? Curious.”

“His request seemed a genuine one, and I have the materials required at paw. Of course, it makes me quite anxious to even be near him, but it is more than that.”

“Yes?”

“He proposes to pay me in verse!”

I laughed. “Is that a viable currency these days? I had no idea! My fortune is made!”

“Is he joking, Mister Quill? Is it a mere jest or is it something more sinister, say, a trick? Or a trap? I’ve read a few of Doctor Watson’s stories and it seems that some humans are forever getting themselves into circumstances such as this one, or much worse, as a result of carelessness and an odd willful disregard for common sense!”

“True, but you mustn’t think too harshly of them, we have advantages that the humans lack and there are exemplar specimens, such as Mister Holmes—”

“Oh, and Inspector Lestrade!”

“Oh? Yes, well, I suppose. What I mean to say is, there are a few humans who have virtues in abundance, like logic, respect for sound literary composition—“

“And kindness and chivalry,” she added, dreamily.

“Right. Back to your problem. What did you say to the owl?”

“I told him that I would consider his offer and asked him to return this evening. He agreed. If I reject his offer, he might eat me. If I accept, well, what then? Business is business, but one can’t consume a poem or trade it for something comestible, can one? Oh, Mister Quill, what shall I do?”

“First, you shan’t meet him alone. I will go with you and perhaps it would be best to bring someone of a higher predator class, just in case.”

But as it turned out, the Ocelot was in an important editorial meeting with Sloth so we were stuck with Ferret, who just so happened to be wearing an unusual pair of close-fitting trousers. Two thick, paw-sized gloves dangled from his neck by a string.

“I suppose if distraction is the only defence needed, we’ll be fine,” I muttered as we followed Aemilia down to the river. “Ferret, what is that costume? You’re not a boxer!”

“And that’s where you’re wrong, Inky. Mister Holmes was just giving me some instruction. Pow! Pow!”

He jabbed at the air.

“Indeed.”

With Ferret, it was sometimes all one could say.

* * *

“I dislike being kept waiting, Miss Vole.”

Oh, my.

I stopped in my tracks.

Aemilia had been right: quite an imposing figure.

The owl was an enormous mountain of feathers, black and dark brown with rare patches of white peeking through. A pair of curled horn-like plumes crowned his head and bestowed a harsh solemnity upon his expression. His eyes and beak were dark and razor-sharp, perhaps a bit too small for his voluminous body, but nevertheless, his was the clearly countenance of a sovereign, not a vassal. His claws gave me pause as did the scratches, both healed and raw, on one of his legs; I swallowed at the fates of the fellow rodents who’d fought, and no doubt failed, to wrench free of that unyielding grasp.

“Hullo,” stammered Aemilia. “This is my friend.” She gestured to me. “He’s a poet, too.”

“A poet?” the owl spat. “Unlikely.”

Well, now.

“I _am_ a poet,” I said. “I don’t believe we’ve met. I’m—“

The owl flapped his wings and seemed to double in size as he advanced towards me, not halting until he was almost looming overhead. He opened his beak to speak and when he did, there was not a single doubt in my poet’s mind, that he was, in fact, reciting:

> " **W** ell, well, well.
> 
> **I** nteresting words compel
> 
> **Z** ephyrs curl then swell
> 
> **E** very idle tongue, each burst of hot air
> 
> **N** eeds a pinch, a twist of winch
> 
> **H** ow have you, prickly pear, so much breath to spare?
> 
> **U** nderstand every verse has a flaw to undo it and
> 
> **E** very choice has a fool who will rue it and
> 
> **T** ell me, kind sir, how is it you’re unaware my name’s Sir Wizen Huet?"

Yes, he was a poet, a poet with an amusing name, Sir Wizen Huet.

When no guffaw or heckle or misguided display of pugilistic bravado issued from behind me, I knew that my mustelid friend had abandoned me. A quick pivot confirmed my suspicion.

Ferret was gone.

The tips of Aemilia’s quivering whiskers peeked out from a half-finished poke bonnet.

When I turned back, the owl huffed.

“Poet? No.”

Well, really!

I met his beady gaze and returned fire.

> " **I** don’t suppose
> 
> **N** o, sir, save your prose
> 
> **K** eep us in throes with
> 
> **Y** our suspense.
> 
> **Q** uiet words, mine, belie
> 
> **U** nder wit, razors, sharp vie
> 
> **I** f you only will
> 
> **L** et me extend my frill
> 
> **L** et me introduce my humble self-- _do you not know it by now?_ —the name’s Inky, Inky Quill."

The owl blinked.

“Inky Quill? Ridiculous name.”

Oh, oh!

I took a step forward, and a voice behind me said,

“Well, it is a _nome de plume_.”

As was ever his custom, the Ocelot made his entrance with a silent majesty, and in the distance, I heard the unmistakable rumble of a dog cart belonging to His Majesty’s Zoological Garden being drawn in fierce haste.

Hurrah! Sloth was on the way!

Ferret had returned, it seemed, with that bravado I’d anticipated earlier on his face and the two boxing gloves now decorating his front paws.

“These are my friends,” I said to the owl. “And we are all friends of Miss Vole, whom you propose to pay for a top hat in verse.”

“Yes. I am willing to overlook the fact that value of the compensation far exceeds the cost of the good and labour.”

This did provoke a guffaw.

The owl fixed Ferret with a hard stare.

What arrogance! What hubris! This bird needed plucking! And I was just the one to do it!

I announced in a loud voice, 

> “Upon the breeze, the buzzes sway.
> 
> A-fuzz the bees with petal spray.
> 
> Sun’s ray lights way home-comb to stay."

“What’s he doing?” Ferret whispered.

“He’s issuing a challenge. It’s like a duel, a poet’s duel” said Sloth. “The particular form is known as—“

“Beeswing,” supplied the Ocelot. “Short, but with a few challenging rules regarding rhyme.”

I waited, and after a long moment of silence, Sir Wizen responded, 

> “The raptor’s gaze, a net that swings.
> 
> The raptor’s stealth, a trap that springs.
> 
> Come silent wings, _snap_ rings, _crack_ stings.”

His voice dripped with menace, and he spared only one breath before launching a counterattack.

> “The obelisk of Greeks ¦ the tekhenu of old
> 
> The tip, a deadly spire ¦ that casts a shadow bold.”

“Oh!” breathed Ocelot and Sloth.

“What?” asked Ferret.

Oh, he would not win!

He would not!

I replied,

> An Alexandrian! ¦ Who knew the Nile so vast?
> 
> From queenly lake, it flows ¦ to bungalow down-caste.

Sir Wizen’s feathers ruffled. “Any wordsmith can forge two or three lines,” said he. “But a serious form?”

“I will trounce you in any form, and you will admit defeat. And my victor’s spoils will be two: the top hat and your permanent disappearance from Miss Vole’s life.”

I was not so blinded by my anger that I had forgot my original purpose or my friend’s plight.

“Very well,” said Sir Wizen. “Tomorrow. At this hour. And the form is barzelleta.”

“Wonderful. No, wait. Two forms. One of your choosing, one of mine.”

I spoke. There were gasps behind me. “There should be an impartial judge,” I added. “I suggest Doctor John Watson.”

“Another friend,” sneered the owl. “Hardly impartial.”

“He’s an author, physician, representative from the uppermost order of the Animal kingdom, decorated defender of Queen and country.”

“Fine. Until the morrow.” And with that, Sir Wizen hopped clumsily towards the window and disappeared into the night.

“Inky,” moaned Sloth with a stricken face. “Why, Inky?”

“I had no choice; he insulted me!”

“No, why did you choose a villanelle?” asked Ocelot, with a slightly furrowed brow, a gesture which indicated ‘stricken’ in his world. “You hate villanelles.”

“Villanelle? Is that what I chose?” Now my face was surely as stricken as theirs.

“Yes!” they cried.

“Why?” I asked weakly. “Why?”

“Inky, I have another question,” said the Ocelot, his brow slightly less furrowed. “Just what kind of owl is Sir Wizen?”

“A damnable one, obviously!” I turned to Sloth. “Do you think Mother Sloth might provision me with a carafe—or ten—of that warm, invigorating, ambrosial nectar of hers that I had the good fortune to imbibe at last Sunday’s delectable luncheon?

“You mean, the chicory coffee? Yes, of course. We’ll send a supply ‘round to your den.”

“Splendid! Will one of you brief Doctor Watson on his role?”

“Yes, of course,” said the Ocelot

“Inky,” said Aemilia. “You are very brave.”

“Or foolish. Tomorrow will tell which. Now I must fly home and cleave to my Muse’s side.”

* * *

I did not sleep, of course.

I wrote. And rewrote.

And the next day when I reached the milliner’s shop, I realised that I was not alone.

Not at all.

Doctor Watson was there, looking more ill at ease than I’d ever seen him, which was perhaps because he was the only human in a throng of animals.

“Oh, he’s here!” someone whispered.

The crowd parted.

“Ocelot?” I asked, looking at all the faces; a few were familiar—Awesome Possum was hanging upside down from the rafters; he paused his smacking to give me a lewd wink—but most of those present were wholly unknown to me.

“Word travels fast,” said the Ocelot. “The Whiskers & Words Society are what can only be described as all a-titter. Ferret’s selling snacks—and taking subscriptions for transcripts of the proceedings.”

“Oh, my word.”

“Well, it’s for his show, you know.”

Aemilia gave me a shy smile. Mouselet, I was told later, was hiding in a boot, Sir Wizen being far too formidable for her to reveal herself.

I spied Ferret once or twice. He was difficult to miss, not for the little bags of nuts and seeds he carried, but rather because he had costumed one half of himself as Cleopatra and the other half of himself as Marc Anthony and had a puppet Julius Ceasar bobbing on his tail. It was for the afore mentioned one-rodent show, which is a story for another day.

My opponent, however, was the story of this day or evening rather; he was on his platform perch, looking as imperial, as imposing, as predatory, as ever.

No matter. I was ready for him.

“Good evening, ladies and, uh, gentle-beasts,” said Doctor Watson. “Will the poets take their places?”

I made my way to a small platform opposite Sir Wizen.

“The form is a barzelleta. Sir Wizen, you will go first.”

He flapped his wings, then began. 

> Awake at dusk, we noble owls
> 
> ascend to air in search of prey.
> 
> We spy the shudders in the grey
> 
> and bend, well-cloaked in feathered cowls.
> 
>  
> 
> We note each tremour, twitch, and tell.
> 
> We swoop and snatch without a sound.
> 
> Held fast are you in clawed spell
> 
> as we return to hallowed ground,
> 
> cathedrals skies with starlight crowned,
> 
> majestic stage of winged-mage prowls.
> 
>  
> 
> We spy the shudders in the grey
> 
> and bend, well-cloaked in feathered cowls.
> 
>  
> 
> A treetop feast, below fears quell
> 
> too late, again, a-hunt, abound
> 
> a thirst to quench, draw deep at well
> 
> until the dark tide ebbs, unwound
> 
> the clock that ticks, the hearts that pound.
> 
> At dawn, we turn from day that fouls.
> 
>  
> 
> Awake at dusk, we noble owls
> 
> ascend once more in search of prey.

 

The crowd, and I, clapped.

“Mister Quill,” said Doctor Watson. “Your turn.”

I nodded.

> The sea is no fast friend of mine.
> 
> Upon it I was thrust, out-cast
> 
> From home, my soul was thrown, unasked
> 
> upon it, chained, in floating shrine.
> 
> As Noah’s captive, I rolled, pitched
> 
> as waves whack-smacked the prison-ship
> 
> The sea and wind were both bewitched.
> 
> Foul storm erased the chartered trip,
> 
> The boat, my destiny both slip
> 
> from mortal course to myst’ry divine.
> 
>  
> 
> From home, my soul was thrown, unasked
> 
> upon it, chained, in floating shrine.
> 
>  
> 
> For liberty, my tired soul itched.
> 
> A-float atop a makeshift skip
> 
> of ship-wrecked crate, my fate was hitched
> 
> to currents, tides, the watery drip
> 
> of sandless hourglass, whose tip
> 
> upturned, for me, tolled London time.
> 
>  
> 
> The sea is no fast friend of mine.
> 
> Upon it I was thrust, out-cast.
> 
>  

The crowd clapped. Sir Wizen stood stoic.

“A difficult call, but the first round goes to Sir Wizen,” said Doctor Watson.

The crowd murmured, then hushed when the good doctor held out his hand.

“Round Two. Villanelle. Sir Wizen, you may begin.”

> Summer, autumn, winter, spring, seasons change, but not I.
> 
> Earth and sun, cheek to cheek, dance their dance, lean and sway.
> 
> Tilt and twirl matter not, far above, by the by.
> 
>  
> 
> Summer brings currents warm, gliding soft, soar, swirl, fly.
> 
> Down below, feast aplenty scurries, does not stray.
> 
> Summer, autumn, winter, spring, seasons change, but not I.
> 
>  
> 
> Autumn cracks, crisp and clipped, drowsy sun bids good-bye.
> 
> Plump delights, bound aground, winter’s stores, tucked away.
> 
> Tilt and twirl matter not, far above, by the by.
> 
>  
> 
> Winter frosts, downy snow, feathers quilt, grey sky.
> 
> Few astir, outlines dark, silhouette, steps betray.
> 
> Summer, autumn, winter, spring, seasons change, but not I.
> 
>  
> 
> Spring uncurls, breaks forth out, shells and swells, flutter shy.
> 
> Morsels choice, find their voice, so do I, hoo-hooray!
> 
> Tilt and twirl matter not, far above, by the by.
> 
>  
> 
> Naught escapes, instincts keen, hearing sharp, and an eye
> 
> Ever-gold, ever-op’ed, e’er-awatch, every way.
> 
> Summer, autumn, winter, spring, seasons change, but not I.
> 
> Tilt and twirl matter not, far above, by the by.

There was some clapping, but I overheard Ocelot’s whispering and his thoughts echoed mine.

“He’s played it too safe.”

“He wants to intimidate, threaten but it’s too much,” replied Sloth. “Tiresome.”

Yes, I was tired of this bird.

“Mister Quill, your turn,” said Doctor Watson.

> Shed not your tears of grief forlorn
> 
> for this reposed discarded hide.
> 
> The poet dies to be reborn.
> 
>  
> 
> At first demise ‘twas none to mourn
> 
> when word-fount sprang from beast tongue-tied
> 
> Shed not your tears of grief forlorn
> 
> for what I was. Pray, save your scorn
> 
> for cruel trader, foul trade plied.
> 
> The poet dies to be reborn.
> 
>  
> 
> From watery grave to pit earth-worn
> 
> for days, beneath, did I reside.
> 
> Shed not your tears of grief forlorn;
> 
> once hid from enemies forsworn,
> 
> I rose, foe felled with friends at side.
> 
> The poet dies to be reborn.
> 
>  
> 
> Fret not, dear friends, if from you torn
> 
> In memory, words, I abide.
> 
> Shed not your tears of grief forlorn.
> 
> _The poet dies to be reborn!_

 

I bore into Sir Wizen with an unflinching gaze and roared the final line.

First, there was a moment of silence, save for the laundress next door throwing wet linen upon the drying racks, and then the milliner’s shop erupted in cheers and applause.

I got a ‘Well done’ from the Ocelot and a ‘Give ‘em the Yank squawk fuckin’ ‘ell, Quill!’ from the rafters and a smile and a nod from Doctor Watson.

“Second round goes to Mister Quill.”

More cheers, but my heart leapt not.

Now what?

“Tie-breaker tomorrow?” suggested Doctor Watson.

I nodded, so did Sir Wizen.

“The hat will be ready then, too, sirs,” said Aemilia.

“Perfect. And the form will be English sonnet,” said Doctor Watson. “Good luck.”

I lumbered home, buoyed by the excited chatter, but when I finally reached my den, I stared at my books and my papers.

And promptly fell asleep.

* * *

“Are you still sleeping?”

It is a wonder how a mother’s voice—even if it is not your own mother’s voice—will provoke a reaction. I was, indeed, still asleep the instant before I heard Mother Sloth’s disapproving cry.

“I’m here to collect the carafes,” she said. “But shouldn’t you be getting ready?”

I looked outside.

Oh, no! It could not be afternoon!

I’d slept a whole day!

I’d nothing!

Nothing!

“Are you troubled, Inky, about that old owl?”

“Yes, yes!” I cried in a panic.

“I remember an old story about an owl and a squirrel. Let’s me see, how did it go…”

* * *

“Welcome back, ladies and gentle-beasts. The final round.”

The milliner’s shop was even more crowded than the previous day.

“Sir Wizen, you may begin.”

>  At lauds, an exaltation heralds sweet
> 
> the dawn. The larks a-bough chirr- _up_ their song.
> 
> The morning star is theirs to welcome, greet;
> 
> they wake the flocks to whom prime t’none belong.
> 
>  
> 
> The day is filled with hosts and quarrels loud,
> 
> with charms in copse, with skeins and rafts on pond.
> 
> A-swim the fowl while sparrows nip and crowd
> 
> the finches, quick to flee to garden frond.
> 
>  
> 
> At vespers, lamps celestial are lit
> 
> as firmament dims, as watches watch.
> 
> Blue nightingales a-stir begin to knit
> 
> and purl their even-croon _sans_ cough or troche.
> 
>  
> 
> At matins, coos that wake the sleeping _Frere_
> 
> convene a parliament most chevalier.
> 
>  

Oh, no.

I gulped.

The applause was strong.

It was a good poem. A very good poem. The better poem.

“Mister Quill, your turn,” said Doctor Watson.

There was silence.

It is a horrible feeling, knowing that you are going to disappoint a room full of friends and admirers, but I am no coward.

Once more, into the fray.

> One golden autumn morn, a fleet of eight
> 
> set sail for Isle of Owl ‘cross glassy lake.
> 
> To gather nuts, their aim, a harvest great
> 
> of autumn’s stores, for winter’s fast to break.
> 
>  
> 
> They came on tiny rafts to Brown Owl’s oak
> 
> to ask leave, all but one, a proper guest.
> 
> They came, but one, with finest gifts bespoke
> 
> that one, the host’s goodwill did sorely test.
> 
>  
> 
> He bore no gift nor did he gather nuts.
> 
> He sang of riddles, jests, and silly rhymes.
> 
> He danced and pranced about in idle struts.
> 
> At last, a judgement swift for petty crimes.
> 
>  
> 
> Held high, aloft, for skinning, he did wail.
> 
> Then— _snap!_ —set free was he by halved a tail.
> 
> Then— _snap!_ —set free, as we, by half a tale!

 

It is an even more horrible feeling to know that you have disappointed a room full of friends and admirers. There were some murmurings and a bit of weak applause, but I knew that I had been bested.

Sir Wizen twisted his head from one side to the other, looking very smug.

Doctor Watson cleared his throat and said, “Miss Vole, the prize?”

Aemilia shuffled to the centre of the shop with the hat, a gorgeous piece of work, which, rightfully, provoked quite a few gasps from the spectators.

But Sir Wizen wasn’t looking at the hat.

He was looking at Aemilia.

And the light in his eyes was one that no rodent could afford to misunderstand.

Aemilia quivered and her fear was telegraphed quickly about the room to everyone.

Everyone but Doctor Watson.

“And the winner is…”

“GOTCHA!”

From the window, a net shot into the room, just missing Sir Wizen’s perch. He flapped, heading across the room towards the open door.

The crowd dispersed at once, squeaking and shouting. Doctor Watson’s voice boomed about the chaos.

“Lestrade! What are you doing here?”

“It’s the inspector!” cried Aemilia when the Yarder crawled through the window.

“I’m doing a favour for a chum at the Zoo,” said Lestrade quickly as he hurried after Sir Wizen. Doctor Watson and I and many others followed. We saw Lestrade throw his net once more.

It caught Sir Wizen’s foot just as a laundress appeared in a window opposite and emptied an enormous basin of dirty water into the alley.

And onto Sir Wizen.

The owl gave a strangled cry as Lestrade pounced.

“Look!” shouted the Ocelot.

The creature in Lestrade’s net was a tiny bird, much more vassal than sovereign. A mound of black and brown feathers and a black puddle decorated ground.

“I knew it,” said the Ocelot. “He looked big, but he smelled small. He’s a common barn owl, not a great-horned or a Eurasian. A disguise. What part wasn’t false feathers was black paint. His own beak and feathers are white.”

“A costume,” said Ferret, nodding. Then he set about collecting all the discarded feathers, which were enough to costume several runs of a one-rodent _Icarus and Daedalus_.

“Watson, I owe you. Or my friend at the Zoo does,” said Lestrade. “This little fellow’s one of the Zoo’s rarest birds, but he keeps escaping, gnawing off his tag and biting through his cage. Seems he doesn’t like his medicine. Ah, well. Who does?” He smiled at Sir Wizen. “Back home with you, mate, where you’ll be safe and well-cared for.”

We all watched as Lestrade exited the alley, but Sir Wizen never once looked back.

“The inspector saved me again!” sighed Aemilia. “He is such a hero.”

“Indeed,” I said without conviction.

* * *

I found him, of course, in the Zoo’s bird infirmary.

I read to him.

My poems. His poems. Shelley’s poems.

Literature. Newspapers.

I told him about how I was captured in an American forest and put on a boat by Jamrach. I told him about the storm and the shipwreck and how I drifted into London on a crate. I told him how I found 221 Baker Street and Mouselet. I told him about fighting a tiger to save Mother Sloth and about the Hound of the Baskervilles.

I told him story after story.

He sat on his perch in his cage with his eyes closed and said nothing.

He never turned his head or opened his eyes or made one noise of recognition.

I encouraged my friends to visit him.

A few did.

He never spoke to them either. Not one hoot.

Upon my fourth attempt, I discovered his cage empty.

No one would say what had happened.

I’ve not seen him since then, but I think about him often.

And the hat?

Oh, everyone knows that _The Importance of Being Ferret_ is doing quite well in the West End, and so I remain your humble servant,

Inky Quill

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inky's sonnet is based on Beatrix Potter's story of Squirrel Nutkin.


	29. July

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Title: July by I. Quill  
> Rating: Gen  
> Length: 500  
> Notes: Inky Quill, Ferret, Doctor Watson, Toby  
> Summary: Why Ferret’s one rodent-show, Julius Caesar, was pre-emptively cancelled.  
> Author’s Note: For the Holmes Minor July prompt: dog days.

In my last missive, I briefly mentioned Ferret’s one-rodent show, his performance of the great Shakespearean drama _Julius Caesar_ , with himself as all three of the play’s main characters (one half of him as Cleopatra, the other half as Marc Anthony and a puppet Caesar perched on his dexterous tail). I dismissed it as a story for another day.   
  
Well, gentle readers, another day has arrived.    
  
In hindsight, even my mustelid friend acknowledges that events were a blessing in that they made way for his hit show _The Importance of Being Ferret_ , but, of course, at the time, failure stung.   
  
But not for long.    
  
“Oh, Doctor Watson!” I exclaimed as I looked down into the box.    
  
The aroma of confection, I confess, is a heady one, and the sight of two tiers of the most delicate cakes—petit fours, as I would call them—blurred as my eyes watered.    
  
“From Mister Holmes, for Ferret. He’s gravely sorry for the chaos caused.”   
  
“Lying does not become you, Doctor Watson,” I said.   
  
“Well, _I_ am gravely sorry and Mister Holmes will be gravely sorry once the case is solved and he’s made aware of  
consequences of our search today.”  
  
“That, I believe, is truth, and I also believe these will go a long way in assuaging Ferret’s sorrow.”    
  
I closed the box. Doctor Watson retied it with string and left it on the ground at the entrance to my den.    
  
“It was remarkable timing, wasn’t it, though?” remarked Doctor Watson.    
  
“That is, indeed, something—along with a penchant for clever disguise—that Mister Holmes and Ferret have in common.”   
  
“I mean, that Ferret should be at that very point in the play when Mister Holmes and I and—“   
  
“Toby,” I interjected.   
  
“—burst into the theatre, on the scent of the Morgan the poisoner.”   
  
“Every member of the audience smaller than Toby fled in terror and every member of the audience who thought itself Toby’s equal, or better, or who though there might be sausages involved, scampered after him. Regardless, the gallery was emptied in mere moments. Poor Ferret, left with his slain Caesar and nothing else. And, as you say, it was at that very moment—“   
  
From behind me a voice rang out.   
  
_ Cry 'Havoc,' and let slip the dogs of war;  _  
_ That this foul deed shall smell above the earth  _  
_ With carrion men, groaning for burial. _  
  
The box of cakes disappeared.    
  
“Well, I think it’s time for tea,” I said.   
  
“Yes, and, dog of war that I am, I need to be returning to my master’s, ah, that is, Holmes’s side.”   
  
And the cakes did go a long way in making Ferret feel better about his loss. And his subsequent acquisition of a very fine silk-trimmed top hat inspired his current success, which I encourage all of my gentle readers to purchase tickets for whilst they are still to be had!    
  
And until next time, I remain, your humble servant,

Inky Quill


	30. One Scene and Two Songs from “The Importance of Being Ferret”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Based on Oscar Wilde’s _The Importance of Being Earnest_ and the songs “If you want a receipt for that popular mystery” and “So go to him/And say to him” from the Gilbert and Sullivan opera _Patience_ and specifically [this Hinge & Bracket interpretation](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Wf8HShLSvvc) of the last. 
> 
> Warning for mild negative stereotyping of the French.
> 
> For [SCFrankles](http://archiveofourown.org/users/SCFrankles/pseuds/SCFrankles). Happy birthday!

**CHARACTERS**

Cul-de-sac (Hedgehog-servant)

Idyll M. Stoat

Weasel

Lady Coronation Ermine

Hon. Minkabelle Ermine

 

**ACT I**

Scene:

_Morning-room of Idyll’s flat. The room is poetically, aesthetically furnished. The sound of grunting and the scratching of pen on paper is heard in the adjoining room. Cul-de-sac is arranging afternoon tea on the table. In addition to a pitcher of water and the tea itself, there are four salvers, each piled with great assortments of sandwiches, cakes, scones, and muffins. Suddenly, there is a loud, sharp moan from the other room. Cul-de-sac startles, dropping to the floor at once and curling in a spiny ball. All goes quiet. Cul-de-sac peeks out, then resumes his work. A loud sigh is followed by a loud yawn and Idyll enters [from the writing-room]_

IDYLL: Did you hear my struggle, Cully?

CUL-DE-SAC: I didn’t think it polite to notice, sir.

IDYLL: Quite right. I was wrestling with a horrid couplet. I don’t write from the heart—anyone poet can write from the heart—I choose to write from the liver. Or the gall bladder, if I’m feeling especially bilious. I keep the stomach for Life.

CUL-DE-SAC: Yes, sir.

IDYLL: But, speaking of livers and stomachs, have you got the pâté sandwiches cut for Lady Ermine?

CUL-DE-SAC: Yes, sir. (Presents the salver heaped with sandwiches.)

IDYLL: (Inspects them.) Yes, _foie gras_ , smoked salmon, ham and watercress, cucumber, egg and black olive, and chicken curry. Well done, Cully.

CUL-DE-SAC: Thank you, sir.

IDYLL: (Takes four sandwiches, one of which he balances on the tip of his nose, and sits down on the sofa. Tips head back and gobbles all four sandwiches in quick succession, tossing the three into his open maw. Smacks.) Oh, by the way, Cully, I see from your book that on Thursday night, when Lord Marten and Mister Ferret were dining with me, eight pounds of best sausages are entered as having been consumed.

CUL-DE-SAC: Yes, sir; eight pounds of best sausages and three toads. (Pointedly averts his gaze)

IDYLL: Why is it that at a bachelor’s establishment the servants inevitably eschew the higher order edibles, such as best sausages, for the lower order ones, like toads. (He wrinkles his face). Or do you do something French with them? _Cuisses de grenouille_?

CUL-DE-SAC: They were toads, sir, not frogs. And I am not French.

IDYLL: Not French? Good heavens! But your name is Cul-de-Sac!

CUL-DE-SAC: That is my _nom de_ _salver_ , sir. My Christian name is Dead-End Street.

IDYLL: I don’t know that I am much interested in your christening, Cully.

CUL-DE-SAC: No, sir. Not a very interesting subject. I never think of it myself.

IDYLL: Very natural, I’m sure. But, see here, Cully, I cannot possibly allow you to be English. Guests always seem to think French servants are improper and either looked shocked, which is delightful, or look disgusted and leave at once, without making so much as a dent in one’s larder, which is better. (Cul-de-sac brings the salver of sandwiches to Idyll on the sofa. Idyll takes four more and eats them.) But tell me, you do have a scandalous past, don’t you?

CUL-DE-SAC: I was banned in 1875, sir, by the Public Health Act.

IDYLL: Now that’s the stuff! Menace to proper hygiene, eh? Jolly good! That will do, Cully, thank you.

CUL-DE-SAC: Thank you, sir. (He sets the salver of sandwiches on the table)

_Cul-de-sac goes out._

IDYLL: I’d hate to let the prickly blighter go as I’ve grown so dreadfully fond of him, but what on earth’s the use of a servant without a dark secret to conveniently come to light at the most frightfully important moment of a plot? (He hums and looks toward the table. Then he crosses the room and reaches for a muffin from the top of a pile.)

_Enter Cul-de-sac._

CUL-DE-SAC: Mister Ferret.

 _Enter Weasel_ (to raucous cheering and applause from the audience; he stops, turns, showing off his left side and grins). _Cul-de-sac goes out._ (The audience quiets)

IDYLL: How are you my dear Ferret? What brings you up to town?

WEASEL: Oh, eating, eating! (Puts his very dashing top hat on the table. Pulls off his gloves and sets them beside the hat.) What else should bring anyone anywhere? (He looks at the table). You’re eating as usual, too, Idyll! Or were you expecting me?

IDYLL: I believe it is customary in good society to take some slight refreshment at every o’clock. (He and Weasel help themselves to sandwiches. They devour half a dozen, each, greedily.)

WEASEL: These are the best ham and watercress sandwiches I’ve ever had the great fortune and good aim to throw down the ol’ gullet. (Idyll smacks and nods and hums) Most of the time you get a thin, diaphanous green thing and this, well, this is a loaf with a field in it!

IDYLL: (Replies with his mouth full) A field wherein wood-smoked swine are grazing.

WEASEL: Quite. But, if my eyes don’t deceive me, these dishes are green, therefore they must be new. What happened to the blue china of the other night?

IDYLL: (Swallows audibly) I couldn’t live up to it.

WEASEL: Oh, yes. (Nods thoughtfully)

(Idyll blots his mouth with a napkin. Then he flops down in the armchair adjacent to the sofa.)

IDYLL: But enough about porcelain troughs, where have you been since last Thursday?

WEASEL: (Pops one more sandwich in his mouth before sitting down on the sofa) In the country.

IDYLL: What on earth do you do there?

WEASEL: (Picks at the crease of his trousers and preens his whiskers fastidiously) When one is in town one snacks at one’s own convenience. When one is in the country one buffets at other’s. It is excessively tedious.

IDYLL: And who are these others with whom you buffet?

WEASEL: Oh, neighbours, neighbours.

IDYLL: Coops, hutches, and pens?

WEASEL: Yes, it’s quite sad. One leaves one’s card but they never return the visit.

IDYLL: How positively bucolic of them!

WEASEL: (Looks over at the table) Far too many sultanas in those scones for my taste. Is someone else coming to tea?

IDYLL: Oh! Merely Aunt Coronation and Minky.

WEASEL: How perfectly delightful!

IDYLL: Yes, that is all very well; but I am afraid Aunt Coronation won’t quite approve of your being here.

WEASEL: May I ask why?

IDYLL: My dear polecat, the way you flirt with Minky is perfectly disgraceful. It is almost as bad as the way Minky flirts with you.

WEASEL: I am in love with Minky. I have come up to town expressly to propose to her.

IDYLL: I thought you had come up for eating? … I call that starving!

WEASEL: What ever do you mean, Idyll?

IDYLL: Well, it’s all very well one proposing, but one might be accepted. One usually is, I believe. And then, when you’re mated, by law you must share your meals! Every single one, divided in two! _Quelle horror!_ That’s an expression Cully taught me. Means ‘By Jove, no!’ It puts the frisson in my greater grison. Or something like that. I’ve also heard rumor that mated mustelids restrict themselves to eating at mealtime alone.

WEASEL: Well that’s just absurd! I’m quite certain it isn’t true.

IDYLL: Well, that’s where you’re wrong. It’s suspect that it is a great truth as it accounts for the extraordinary number of unwed jacks that one sees all over the place. Secondly, she might ask you to slim your figure.

WEASEL: (Harrumphs and runs a paw down the front of his suit) One’s figure is an intimate matter, the only one who ought to be concerned about it is one’s tailor. And he’s all for snacking. Means more alterations. Tacking and untacking, don’t you know.

IDYLL: I do know. That’s why you can mark me down as ‘confirmed bachelor-jack’ for life.

WEASEL: I have no doubt about that, dear Idyll.

IDYLL: And you, too, for, lastly, I do not give my consent for you to mate with Minky.

WEASEL: Your consent!

IDYLL: My dear polecat, Minky is my first cousin. And before I allow you to mate with her, you will have to clear up this whole question of the weasel. (Rings the bell)

WEASEL: Weasel! What on earth do you mean? I don’t know any weasels.

_Enter Cul-de-sac_

IDYLL: Bring me that sweets case Mister Ferret left in the nibbling-room the last time he dined here.

CUL-DE-SAC: Yes, sir.

_Cul-de-sac goes out._

WEASEL: Do you mean to say that you have had my sweets case all this time? I wish to goodness you had let me know.

IDYLL: Been writing frantic letters to Scotland Yard?

WEASEL: Goodness, no! What’s the use of that when one’s on intimate terms with the world’s greatest detective? No, it’s just that I had a lovely lot of sugared violets in it.

 _Enter Cul-de-sac with the case on a salver. Idyll takes it and opens it at once._ _Cul-de-sac goes out._

IDYLL: Yes, they were delicious. (Smiles, then looks at the inside of the case) However, it makes no matter, for, now that I look at the inscription inside, I find that the thing isn’t yours after all. It belongs to one ‘Weasel,’ and you’re Ferret.

WEASEL: I’m not Ferret; I’m Weasel.

IDYLL: You have always told me you were Ferret. I have introduced you to everyone as Ferret. You answer to the name of Ferret. You look like a Ferret.

WEASEL: The last is stage paint, I’m afraid. (He rises and unfurls a handkerchief. Goes to the table and pours some water in a glass. Dips his handkerchief in the water and wipes one side of his face. One circle of the black mask rubs off to reveal a golden-brown fur beneath. Produces a brush from his pocket and smooths the fur, smudging it dark once more)

IDYLL: Egad! But you ferret for delicacies better than any creature I’ve ever known. And it’s on your card. (Taking it from case. Looking at it. Gasping.) Oh, no! Weasel! (He drops the card on the floor and collapses back into the chair in faint faint)

WEASEL: The truth is I’m Ferret in town and Weasel in the country. (He strides to table and swipes a piece of cake and eats it.)

IDYLL: I don’t understand.

WEASEL: Of course, you don’t. You’ve such a simple, singular nature. I can hardly expect you to understand a complex, dual existence such as mine.

IDYLL: (Affronted) Simple! Singular!

WEASEL: That’s what I said. (Walks to the centre of the room. Faces the audience. Stretches his forepaws wide. Grins.)

IDYLL: You aren’t going to sing, are you?

WEASEL: (Winks to the audience; begins to sway as music begins) Perhaps.

IDYLL: Couldn’t you just dance a bit and I’ll throw muffins at you? No? Oh, well. (Goes to the table, grabs a plate and heaps scones on it. Returns to sofa and munches while Weasel sings)

 

WEASEL:

If you want a receipt for that popular jackabout

Known to all London as Idyll M. Stoat

Snip the worst bits from the best bards and, without a doubt,

when sewn as one, you’ve a Wilde-ish fiend-poet

 

The sight of Ol’ Homer when steering the Odyssey

Shakespeare’s wit put in the vernacular

Wordsworth extolling city grime and cacophony

Tennyson’s gift for laughs spectacular

Bold cry of Kipling at his most insurrectionist

Sigh of Donne rendered mum by his piety

Boxed heart of Shelley, post-vivisectionist

Glow of ol’ Coleridge in rapt sobriety

Ivory towers of loftiness to which Twain did climb

Hip-hurrahs for Blake from those of his time

The bleakness of Keats, Maud Gonne’s yes to Yeats,

and toss in the bleats of a few hungry sheeps

Pride unByronic; Rhine unTeutonic;

miles on bile, ‘til one’s quite catatonic.

(Crosses his eyes, goes stiff, and falls sideways on the floor, facing the audience)

Dab of madness with a method most erratic

Morbid fascination with all things hepatic

Wrap in a coat to drive furriers ecstatic

Sum? A lot of hot heir most aristocratic.

 

IDYLL: Now, see, you’re wrong.

WEASEL: (Lifts head) Oh, yes? About what?

IDYLL: Everything, of course. First, I can understand, and, indeed, I empathise with your circumstances. But, of course, what you call ‘dual existence’ I call something different.

WEASEL: What?

IDYLL: Lying.

WEASEL: (Clasps his chest, falls back to the floor) Oh, I’m slain!

IDYLL: (Taps his mouth with his paw) What I can’t understand is why. There must be some advantage to it.

WEASEL: It doesn’t behoove a mustelid with an appetite such as mine to be domesticated in the country.

IDYLL: Ah-ha! I was right. It is like Franklesing. You’re a Franklesist.

WEASEL: A what?

IDYLL: Whenever I go to a dinner—or luncheon or supper or breakfast or tea—that isn’t up to my standards, I say I must leave at once to visit my reclusive, mysterious writer chum Frankles, who’s in a sudden and dreadful bind vis-à-vis a play or a novel or a short story or a poem or whatever. Of course, there is no Frankles, except in the literary miasma.

WEASEL: And your scheme works?

IDYLL: Indubitably. (Rises, tosses plate on the sofa) Let me tell you about it…

WEASEL: Oh, no! (Stands)

IDYLL: (Pushes Weasel out of the spotlight; Takes his place centre stage,) …in a song.

(Weasel rushes to the table, seizes the salver of muffins and set it down on the sofa, then sits beside it, munching)

IDYLL:

Ere I sup with them, I look up at them, with countenance attritional,

 

‘A friend, you see,

wit’s end, dear me’

And that’s just what I say!

 

‘I must rush to crush a crust of

writer’s brick oppositional.’

 

‘Good-bye,’ bid I

‘Must fly,’ I cry

And that’s just what I say!

 

‘Dry-run a pun of hot cross buns; wrangle prepositional

phrases vexed through mazes hexed; or un-mince the tense conditional.

Find rhymes for orange; make spectral leitmotif apparitional’

 

WEASEL:

A whatsit-who?

Oh, go on, you!

 

IDYLL: (Smiles)

And that’s just what they say!

 

Decline, I say

To dine, I say

And go my merry way!

 

In need, a friend, indeed, wit’s end.

Flawed metaphor begs editor.

Absurdity, with words, dear me!

And that’s just what I say!

 

WEASEL: (Singing at the same time)

Mead and seed!

(Eats muffins, goes to the table)

Spread on bread!

(Snatches a piece of cake and smears butter on it)

Stirred plum curd!

(Snatches another piece of cake and smears jam on it)

 

IDYLL:

Anastrophe catastrophe;

ill verse, you see, wants nurse, that’s me;

with vim, I flee, a simile

seeks aide. I flash! When bade, must dash!

And that’s just what I say!

 

WEASEL:

Fast repast!

(Gobbles the cake)

Thirst! The worst!

(Grabs the water pitcher, drinks from it; most of his black mask washes off)

Hem to brim

(smooths a paw down his front, brushing off crumbs)

Made most staid

(straightens tie and rushes back to the sofa)

 

IDYLL and WEASEL: (Looking at each other)

 

And that’s just what I say!

 

IDYLL: So there you have it.

WEASEL: Perhaps.

IDYLL: But I think you should tell Minky the truth.

WEASEL: No!

IDYLL: Yes! Why not?

 

Just go to her and say to her with manner upright, ethical

 

‘Though weasel-y

I’m still quite me’

And that’s what you should say!

 

A ferret’s just a mustelid with manners, style impeccable

 

‘If stripped of name,

I’m still the same’

And that’s what you should say!

 

And though you’re part quite Wilde at heart, most undomesticated

She’ll see through, to the charming-you, with whom she’s fortune-fated

With apology sworn prettily, a crisis mitigated

 

WEASEL:

Come clean and clear

‘So sorry, dear,’

And _that’s_ what I should say?

 

IDYLL:

Come clear and clean

‘E’er yours, my queen!’

And _that’s_ what you should say!

 

WEASEL: I don’t know.

IDYLL: You’ve got out of tighter scrapes than this.

WEASEL: (Looks down, pats belly) But the corset’s not much help here, I’m afraid.

IDYLL: What is the worst that could happen?

WEASEL: The worst? Minky refuses to speak to me, the rest of society follows suit, I become an outcast and a recluse until I’m forced out of my flat and must take up residence here—

IDYLL: Here?!

WEASEL: —well, in the nibbling room, I suppose.

IDYLL: (Worried) And eat all your meals—

WEASEL: Why, with you, of course!

IDYLL: (Eye widen) Oh, no! I’ll make certain, that is, I am certain that that won’t happen. She’ll understand and forgive you. After all…

WEASEL: After all…

IDYLL:

If she wants a receipt for a mustelid exemplar

Known to the world as, uh, Weasel or Ferret?

 

WEASEL:

Try debonair chevalier or Knight of the Templar

 

IDYLL: (Rolls his eyes)

Fuse the virtues of cousins by merit

 

The swiftness of otter when swimming a-currently

The Saville row panache of a sable

 

WEASEL: (Brushes his front)

 

Of course, that’s oft when I’m parched and far too late for tea.

But I do leave all my crumbs on the table.

 

IDYLL:

The strength of a wolverine facing Goliath’s roar

Grit of a badger rooting on forest floor

 

WEASEL:

Not much of a fighter, a slingshot’d be funny

I ask, do not badger, but don’t they come in honey?

 

(Weasel and Idyll clasp each other’s forepaws and dance around in a circle.)

 

Mittens of marten, grisson’s magic charm

A fitch’s niche to tell a joke and disarm

 

_(At the back of the stage, Cul-de-sac appears with two visitors, one older, one younger, in dresses and voluminous plumed hats; Idyll and Weasel continue singing and dancing. They move side-by-side, facing the audience, and do can-can kicks)_

 

WEASEL:

I’m not a Ferret!

IDYLL:

But a weasel’s relative.

WEASEL:

I still have merit!

IDYLL:

Do wash away deceit’s stench!

 

_(The younger visitor’s jaw drops and she looks at the older visitor, who glared at the pair.)_

 

CUL-DE-SAC: (Coughs) Lady Coronation Ermine and Mademoiselle.

_(Idyll and Weasel freeze, stare at each other, then look back at the visitors)_

IDYLL: Oh, Cully! How could you?!

WEASEL: That’s so very—

CUL-DE-SAC: (Shrugs) French.


	31. August

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Jamrach & co. have Inky and Ferret trapped, it’s time for a little improvisation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by today's solar eclipse.

Somewhere clock ticked loudly. Too loudly. Or maybe it was my heart.

“So this is how it ends. Ouch!”

“Now’s not the moment to be fatalistic, Ferret! Sorry.”

We were huddled together, well, as much as my quills allowed, beneath the legs of the large wooden chair.

“Really? Jamrach and two of his most unpleasant associates have us quite literally backed into a corner! Three rifles are trained on us! Where, pray tell, dear Inky, is the silver lining?”

“I’VE GOT YOU NOW, THIEVING VERMIN!” growled my nemesis, he who bore the dubious distinction of being the most prolific of all the London traders in animals some called exotic, but I called my friends.

“How very prosaic and unoriginal. But perhaps our silver lining,” I said, considering the dark curtain hung before the window, which we’d drawn in hopes that the cover of darkness would give us an advantage over our adversaries, “is, in truth, a corona. What time is it, Ferret?”

“Time?” he squeaked. “It’s about ten minutes until you become an exhibit at a museum instead of a zoo and I become a muff!”

“Enough theatrics, Ferret! I can’t see the clock!”

“Uh,” he peeked out from between a pair of rungs, “ten after two!”

“Perfect.”

And just as a burly hand turned over the chair, I launched myself into the curtain, pulling it and its fastenings down.

“AARGH!”

“MY EYES! MY EYES!”

“Run, Ferret!”

But he needed no encouragement.

* * *

“Mister Quill, I must commend you for your improvisation. I don’t believe even I have ever made use of celestial phenomenon as tool of defence, but I will now consider it an essential part of my arsenal.”

“Thank you, Mister Holmes. I confess to eavesdropping last week when you hosted that group of scientists.”

“Oh, the purloined telescope!” exclaimed Doctor Watson.

“It was the lens, my dear man, and the note-book of its inventor that was of most interest to the thieves, but, with our intervention, both were duly restored and the Royal Astronomical Society was duly grateful.”

“Although science informed the timing, I must say that the original idea came from literature.”

“How so?” asked Doctor Watson.

“My fellow countryman Mark Twain employed a similar device in one of his novels, _A Yankee in the Court of King Arthur_.”

“Fascinating. I must seek out a copy,” said Doctor Watson.

“Well, I’m just glad to have my co-star back,” said Ferret. “What would _The Importance of Being Ferret_ be without Idyll Stoat?”

“He makes a much better thespian than he does a stole!” I agreed.

Ferret slurped his tea, gobbled down the last of the scones, brushed the crumbs from his fur, then rose. “Well, thanks to all. Must dash. Show’s got to go on, don’t you know? Would do to have one’s star…”

Mister Holmes, Doctor Watson, and I groaned, then spoke as one,

“Eclipsed.”

I hope that you’ve enjoyed this recounting of my latest adventure. And until next time, I remain,

Your humble servant,

Inky Quill

 


	32. Inky's Poetry Journal: How do you spell love?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Title: How do you spell love? [by I. Quill]  
> Rating: Gen  
> Length: 177  
> Author’s Notes: From Inky’s Poetry Journal; for the fffc September challenge: day 3 [Prompt: How do you spell love? - I don’t spell it, I feel it. (Winnie-The-Pooh)]

How do you spell love, young poet of the Scots?  
  
I spell it with a 'u,' you see,  
for if luve is good enough for Uncle Bobby's red, red rose,  
it's good enough for me.   
  
How do you spell love, noble fir of the woods?  
  
I spell it with an 'i' you see,  
for when I live,  
scent, shade, and boughs I give,  
a Magi of a tree.  
  
How do you spell love, breeze of Spanish plains?  
  
Por mi, I spell it with an 'e.'  
for _leve soy_ ,   
a-waft with fragrance, cry, and joy  
from vast Iberian sea  
  
How do you spell love, dame proprietress?  
  
I spell it with an a,' you see.  
A-wash, a-scrub, a-lave  
whilst gentlemen misbehave,  
my care persists, from tea to tea.  
  
How do you spell love, faithful scribe aside the sleuth?  
  
I spell it with an 'o,'  
'cause the schoolmarm's slate once told me so.  
  
How do you spell love, Mister Sherlock Holmes?  
  
My reply may trouble you.  
I don't, but when I do, here's a clue:  
it commences with a 'w.'


	33. Inky's Poetry Journal: Of Love and Miasma.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Title: Of Love & Miasma (Poetry by I. Quill & S. Holmes)  
> Rating: Teen (for Holmes's poem)  
> Length: 330  
> Notes: Inky's is an English sonnet. Holmes's is a variation on.  
> Summary: Holmes asks Inky for a bit of inspiration.  
> Author's Note: for the fffc September challenge quote by Maya Angelo that began 'Love is a virus.'

_On me, Mister Quill, autumn has an effect similar to that of spring on the younger man. The air cools, the leaves change color, and my usually serious thoughts turn to fancy._  
  
_Fancy? You mean poetry._  
  
_Yes, I mean poetry. Watson writes a bit of verse now and then. Why not me? But where to start? The realm is dauntingly vast._  
  
_Indeed. Perhaps I could pen something to inspire you._  
  
_Capital idea!_  
  
_All right. Give me a word._  
  
_Miasma._  
  
_Miasma?_  
  
_Yes, it's origins are Greek--._  
  
_Yes, I'm familiar. Very well. The tone might be a bit dark._  
  
_Like the lengthening night, Mister Quill, like the lengthening shadows._

* * *

Miasma in the Time of Love  
By I. Quill

  
Night air. Its tainted tendrils uncurl and creep  
along the larkless streets in search of fettle prime,  
then reap in fleshy sleeves the leaves which’ll steep  
in twisty misty coils of foul sublime.  
  
Night fog. Opaque drape wrapped ‘round shoulders, broad  
and narrow. Shroud of sick-soaked rope descends.  
It presses clays to clods of irksome god,  
crafts bricks of sticks to meet its graven ends.  
  
Night scent. It clings to all with claw-foot wings.  
It whets its appetite on day’s mistakes,  
forgotten, rotten, raw, besotten things,  
its fingertips a-linger-skip in wakes.  
  
Miasma. Vile, accursed atmosphere  
compelling life to sniff and sigh in fear.

* * *

Love in the Time of Miasma

By S. Holmes

  
Night air. That lover’s cry might crack pane, shame  
and let the noisome poison in, to mix  
and mingle, then return from whence it came,  
a passion’s brew a-raft up River Styx.  
  
Night fog. A spectre curtains actors, stage.  
That hand may find hand without incensed sneer.  
That honeyed words might fill ears, hollows, page  
and light the way through shadow insincere.  
  
Night scent. Extinguished wicks and little deaths  
that leave a catacomb of bone bouquet.  
A mystery, an ecstasy, a breath  
of perfumed reason’s treason, flight, decay.  
  
So, hoist the yellow flag! And don the beaky masks!  
if air, like us, ‘tis foul, why not drain its fetid casks?

 


	34. Inky's Poetry Journal: Ladies Archery Society: a xenolith

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The prompt was ladies archery in Regents Park.

Of skills, a range of generous variety

Of song, stage, friend to one and all

the London Ladies Archery Society

foresees a need for aide stood tall.

Some green aquiver with anxiety.

Such nerve! Fletching fledglings stir

at poise in pedestal of fur.

while others show a veteran sobriety.

The target’s placed atop flat head.

The Ferret stills like something dead.

Arrow to bow with dignity, propriety

The shot flies straight to apple’s core.

The target’s consumed with respect and piety.

Applause. Crowd, creature cheer for more.

The Ferret’s here for snacks, not notoriety.


	35. September

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Inky tries something new at Battersea Park.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the LJ Holmes Minor prompt: Learning something new.

I suppose it’s quite normal for anyone, even expatriates like myself, to grow complacent about one’s surroundings and routine. The urge to seek out new scenery and novel diversion may wane from time to time, but that is less the case if you, or your friends, are involved in the periodical business.   
  
And so it was I found myself one fine evening, when summer had just released its vise grip on the metropolis, with Sloth and his mother in Battersea Park. Ostensibly our excursion was for research for a possible upcoming feature in this fine publication, but once we arrived, no one remembered to take any notes.   
  
We were having too much fun.      
  
We watched the steamboats at the pier and the paddle boats on the lake and the cricketeers at play in the yard.   
  
The sub-tropical garden was, as promised, a highlight and reminded the Sloths of their home so much that seemed loathe to leave, were it not for the nibbles on offer just beyond the garden gates.   
  
“With so many sweet and savory snacks about,” I observed as we sat down with our ginger beers at comfortable nook facing the oddly-named Rotten Row, “it is a shame that our friend Ferret is not here.”   
  
“Oh, I invited him. He said he would meet us here.”   
  
“INKY!”   
  
I looked up, just in time to see Ferret flying by.   
  
On a bicycle.   
  
His back paws were on the seat, his front paws were gripping the handles, and a pair of fearsome-looking wharf rats were perched on the pedals, rising and falling.   
  
When the shock wore off, I abandoned the Sloths and raced after him. I caught up with him coming towards me.   
  
“This is fun! Give it a try, Inky!” Ferret called.   
  
And to make a long story short, I did. And it was fun. So much fun that Ferret and I had to exchange our tired wharf rats for fresh ones.    
  
As the sun went down, we agreed to one last race with the loser treating the winner (and the winner’s rats) to the delicacy of his choice.   
  
We huffed and puffed and steered our chariots deftly, urging our steeds onwards until a pair of enormous wheels appear from nowhere, right in our path.   
  
We all went flying.   
  
Into a wagon of fruit.    
  
The rats, and Ferret, were overjoyed and set to feasting. I, too, enjoyed the late summer harvest with a more modest enthusiasm.    
  
“So that’s why your quills are so sticky,” said Doctor Watson, as he helped me remove the last of the rind and residue.   
  
“Yes, and it proves that one is never too anything to learn something new.”   
  
“Indeed. Next time, let me know and I’ll teach you how to stop!”   
  
And like the Yank that I am, I told him we had a deal and we shook hand-to-paw on it.   
  
And so I wish all my gentle readers a beautiful commencing autumn and until next month, I remain,   
  
Your humble servant,   
  
Inky Quill   


	36. October

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Inky and three friends tell scary stories on a wet ungenial night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired the circumstances under which the story of Frankenstein was created, i.e., the wet, ungenial summer of 1816. With Inky as Mary Shelley, Sloth as John Polidori, Awesome Possum as Shelley and Ferret as the ‘mad, bad, and dangerous to know,’ Lord Byron. Includes re-imaginings of “The Pied Piper of Hamelin,” “The Canterville Ghost” (Oscar Wilde), “Fragment of a Novel” (Byron) and, of course, _Frankenstein_ (Mary Shelley).

“We seem to be a bit of party and that would make me host, wouldn’t it? Welcome, everyone. I’m so glad that you could come,” I glanced at the entrance to my den, “in from the torrential rain. I am certain that we shall make a splendid silk purse of such wet, ungenial sow’s ear of a night!”

With a slight bow, I began scurrying about my home, launching myself into a frenzy of preparations for an unexpected supper for four. My chief concern was that my larder, while more than ample for a porcupine, would be insufficient to supply a meal to satisfy the appetites of both Ferret and Awesome Possum. Thankfully, my third guest was Sloth, whom I knew to be quite modest of intake. He’d be content so long as the tea was milky, sweet, and plentiful.

I rummaged about for the big kettle and put it on at once, then went in search of the ‘good tea,’ the tin gifted to me by Mister Holmes last Christmas. Though careful not to disturb the pile of blankets against the interior wall, I found what I sought soon enough and was relieved.

So preoccupied was I in setting the table, putting the stew to simmer, and fussing with the cakes, that I did not jump at the crack of thunder nor shiver at the howling winds which followed.

But my guests did, to a one. It surprised me, for I would have considered each of them beyond such primal reactions, Sloth for his stoicism, Ferret for his bravery and bravado, and Awesome for his sheer defiance of all norms and conventions. The storm, which showed no signs of relenting in its ferocity, clearly spooked them.

With the vittles under way, my thoughts turned to diversion.

Games?

I had a sudden vision of my den rent to ruins by Awesome and Ferret battling over the last musical chair and then a second vision of three moribund piles of fur decomposing to ash whilst Sloth completed his charade of “ _Woodman, Spare that Tree!_ ”

Then lightning flashed, within and without the humble brain of your humbler servant.

I announced,

“Stories.”

Three sets of eyes met mine, and I could see by the flickers of curiosity in their expressions, I’d hit upon something of interest to all.

“Why don’t we each think of a story to tell?” I continued.

“Perhaps a seasonal story,” suggested Sloth.

“Yes!” cried Ferret. “A scary story. It’s almost time for the humans to celebrate All Hallows’ Eve.”

I nodded. “We’ll each think of a such story during dinner.”

“Truth or fiction?” asked Ferret.

“Either,” I replied. “Strange occurrence. The unexplained. The mysterious. Then after dinner, we’ll have tea and dessert and share stories by the fire.”

My guests hummed.

“Heh, heh,” laughed Awesome. “You’se-a better have those hankys handy! I’mma gonna bobba-dobba-boo th’ boo-hoo outta ya!”

Being not as familiar with Awesome’s colourful phrasing as I am, Ferret and Sloth merely stared blankly.

“Boo!” Awesome shouted, lunging at Ferret and Sloth with what most would consider a menacing grin, but I knew to be one of pure jest.

Awesome laughed when Sloth and Ferret startled. He laughed even harder at their attempts to conceal their shock.

Their expressions turned stony, and Ferret said,

“We’ll see who’s scared, Mister Possum.”

Sloth huffed. “Indeed, Mister Possum.”

“I keep tellin’ ya, fuzzy peaches. I’m just Awesome.” He winked. “And by the way, Slothy, how’s ya mama?”

\---

Dinner passed, and when we were settled about the fire with tea and cider and a platter heaped with scones, I said,

“Who’d like to begin?”

Sloth cleared his throat.

“In the north of very old country, there was a little town called Ratlin. It was a prosperous and thriving settlement protected by stone walls. The rats of Ratlin led an easy life, but that alone didn’t satisfy them. They worked very hard, took care of one another, and loved their children dearly.”

“Then one day, a terrible event occurred. It was the eve of the winter solstice in the year 1283. The rats of Ratlin were busy preparing to celebrate the holiday. The scents of their feasts wafted throughout the town—delectable aromas of meats, cheese, bread, tarts, and cakes. They decorated their homes and streets. They prepared gifts for their children. They even fattened themselves with a special sugary, buttery, raisin porridge, so that the fleas which made homes in their fur might, too, enjoy a feast on the darkest night of the year. In the midst of this excitement, no rat noticed that a human had snuck in through one of the town gates.”

“It was followed by a second human, then a third…”

“After a few minutes, there were a few hundred humans; after a few hours, there were more than a thousand. It was not long before they invaded the town. Nothing could stop these big furless creatures with their watery eyes, shovel-tipped teeth, and tailless posteriors. They stomped through doors, banged on windows, and barged into rats’ homes by way of their gardens, which they trampled.”

“Once inside, the humans threw themselves onto the food and began to eat it all. The rats tried to defend themselves and save their dinners, but they could not rid themselves of the humans.”

“When the day of the solstice dawned, there was nothing left to eat. The humans were everywhere—inside nests, filling holes, crowding streets.”

“When there was no food left, the humans began to eat the pillows, books, candles and chairs. They even began to nibble on the rats themselves, their ears and tails, bothering the young and most tender first. The rats panicked until even the fleas in their fur quivered with fear at the invaders.”

“Fleeing their homes, the residents gathered in front of the town hall and begged the mayor to intervene. He ordered the most powerful poison from the town apothecary and demanded it be used in all the human-traps that could be found.”

“Alas, the humans were so clever and hearty that they avoided all the traps laid out across the town and savored the poison as if it were candy.”

“Desperate, the mayor announced that he would surrender the key of the town, for by now no one in the town, including the mayor, had any wealth to speak of, to whomever could free Ratlin of this ordeal.”

“The announcement quickly spread throughout the land and at dusk, a strange rat came to Ratlin and presented himself at the town hall.”

“’I am known as the Pied Piper,’ he said, ‘and I know how to get rid of these humans.’”

“’Please do!’ cried the mayor. ‘And the town is yours!’”

“The stranger calmly walked toward the main square. He took an ordinary small pipe made of black wood out of his fur and started to play a haunting melody. As soon as the first notes could be heard, the humans interrupted their relentless quest to lay waste to everything in sight to listen to the piper’s tune. Then, suddenly, they all leapt into the streets to gather around him. Soon, the main square was packed with thousands of entranced humans.”

“Still playing, the stranger began to walk toward the town gates. A gruesome yet tame procession followed as the humans departed from Ratlin. The humans skipped across the bridge over the nearby river and disappeared into the mountains.”

“They were never to be seen again.”

“The mayor and, indeed, every rat in Ratlin was overjoyed at the departure of the humans. Some immediately set about restoring their town to its earlier state, and even though the solstice had passed, they decided by unanimous vote to declare the following day a holiday, The Day of the Piper. The mayor’s first task was to commission the crafting of a handsome wooden box to hold the key of the town so that it would be ready for entrusting to the Piper whenever he appeared to claim it.”

“But the Piper, as it would turn out, never did return to Ratlin.”

“As the rats dispersed from the main square, one of them cried out, ‘My fleas! They’re gone!’”

“Alarm seized the crowd. Every rat checked their coats, but there was not one flea among them.”

“’He took our fleas, too!’ the rest lamented.

Then, suddenly, a strong gust of cold air blew from the mountains, and it brought with it to Ratlin the most horrible, and horribly human, screams, cough, sputters, and death-rattles.”

“And such echoes, carried on the winter wind, plague the town to this very day. And nary a flea, nor a human has every cross the gates since.”

* * *

“‘The End,’” said Sloth, a bit flustered as the three of us were silent and staring. “Did it meet expectations?”

We broke into a wild clapping. Sloth smiled and bowed his head.

“Still waters do indeed run deep,” I observed. “That was most excellent, my dear Sloth, most appropriate for the season.”

Awesome and Ferret hummed in agreement.

“Thank you,” said Sloth. And might I trouble you for a bit more tea? Assistant editors of periodicals are not accustomed to so much talking and find myself parched.”

“Absolutely,” I said, refilling his cup. “Now, who’s next?”

“Awesome’s ya uncle,” smacked Awesome.

“No relation of mine,” muttered Ferret, who looked haughtily away and helped himself to another scone.

* * *

So I rolla inta town and I gotta find some digs and I spot this place and it’s the rooster’s nightshirt! The batta-bing-n-the-ringa-ding-ding, and all the ker-snozzle you’d want. And the price was right up ol’ Awesome’s dark alley. So I say to the fella upstairs, ‘Gimme dat ‘un.’ And he says, “I regret to inform you, that residence is haunted by a ghost.’ ‘A ghostie!’ I cry. ‘Well, as long as he don’t take up space and mess w’ my pomade, we’ll be pals.’

“So I filled the fella’s dance-card and threw down the ol’ Awesome sack down, but oh, ho! there was a ruddy stain on the ground, smackin’-no-dabbin’ in the middle of my bed-spot. Now, I’m a filthy so-and-so but I can’t be yawnin’ and restin’ my weary head on nuthin’ but Awesome blood.”

“I asked the majordomo, he of the ‘I regret to inform you’ business. And he’s squirrely about it—he’s squirrely about everything being a squirrel—but he finally says it’s where the ghostie—before he was a ghostie, natchawatcha—done offed his ol’ lady. So I says, ‘Well, that’s all fine and Yankee Doodle, but I ain’t bring a snail’s house on my back all the way from slammin’-Alabamin’-no ma’am-in’ to be cut to the quick by a touch of the ol’ ‘ _to-mah-to sauce_.’ So I drop a speck of Pinkerton’s Stain Remover and Paragon Detergent on it and a bit of mushy-swishy-brushy and zammie! Clean as a thistle behind ya mama’s ear. So I’m tuckered out by the domesticating and the what-not and lay my head down to get my forty winks. And son of a shrimp-boat if I ain’t woken up by the rattling of chains! I cut open a peeper and see the nastiest looking mongoose I’ve ever set my goldie-orbies on.”

“Doubtful given your sphere of acquaintance,” harrumphed Ferret and I could see that another tray of fancies was in order if civility was to be maintained. Luckily, I’d seen to prepare quite a few reinforcements and went to fetch one forthwith.

I listened as Awesome continued his tale.

“So there’s the ghostie. And I knowsa he’s ghostie on accounta he gots dem smashed-berry eyes and da phatasmogorphical profile and he ain’t combed his fur since Moses went a-boatin’ in the bulrushes. And he’s all manacled like a canticle on the devil’s doorstop, yeah? Rattlin’ like a snake, chattalin’ like a herd of burnt-iron cows. So I says to the fella, ‘Ain’t you ever heard of Tammany’s Rising Sun Lubricator? One drop and that rusted-bustard mustard of yours I’ll be singing in a choir and pinchin’ the preacher’s ewe.’ I dug a bottle outta my sack and offered it to him.”

“And whattya think? He threw the Sun back at me! So I launched my bad pillow—my good pillow’s for the winks, my bad pillow’s for hiding midnight snacks like nibblin’ lizards and teeny moles—at him. Well, that put him on his haunches and he blew his little trumpet, didn’t he? He coughs and sputters and says in a consumptive moo-moo, ‘I’ve sent dowager owls into fits, field mice into hysterics, made a perfect martyr to nervous disorders of an egret. I once forced a shrew to choke on one of the rotten soot-ball she’d tried to sell as an overripe pear. I frightened a swarm of angry bees into stinging the belly of a wagon, then drowning themselves one and all in the nearest pond. Why I even made a herd of sheep shed their wool by playing croquet with a faint lamb as mallet and my own head as the sticky wicket!’”

“’Well, idle paws’s Lucifer’s sweetmeats,’ I says, tired from bendin’ the ear and still missin’ ‘bout twenty-two winks. ‘I’m Awesome, by the way.’ I extended a paw like the gentle-ossm that I am.”

“’You are absolutely not,’ he popped. Then he went all misty and was gone before I could pip another pip.”

“He tried moanin’ groanin’ a-bonin’ whilst I was doin’ my sleepin’ ‘oanin’. And I tossed him a sample of Doctor Dobell’s tincture, which is well-known as the whistlest cleaning stuff on the croupy Eastern seaboard, but he’d have none of it.”

“What could I do? You can lead a ghostie to water but you can’t make ‘im gargle and spit! I went about the business of being Awesome, but I was ready for the next skirmish. The week a-comin’ he showed himself during one of my naps. Pow, pow, pow! Ain’t nobody ‘pittoon the platoon pea-shooter like Awesome! Mister Ghostie was rubbing his peepers and ‘I say’-ing until he was blue in the no-face, but I kept ‘em comin’ ‘til he finally whooped a yellow-bellied retreat, yellin’ ‘You, sir, are a rat of the first order!’”

“I knew he’d be back, but I got to thinkin.’ This Mister Ghostie ain’t never seen the likes of me before. A rat, eh? I’ll show ‘im what the ol’ Awesome can do that no rat can ker-skittle. They thinks we’s alls alike, Inky-Plinky, but ol’ Awesome got an ace in his hole of his own suitin’”

He shot me a grin, and I nodded. “Indeed,” I said, cottoning at once to the idiosyncratic defense mechanism to which he was referring.

“I knew Mister Ghostie was gonna a-comin’ at me with twin-spinnin’ barrels. And he sho’ nuff did. Floppy red hat with plume a-matchin’. Sheet that’d been in the rain since Noah’s lovey-dovey tuckered out. And a knife that ain’t ever seen a smear of Cyril’s Rust-proof Wax comin’ right at me, business-end first, natchawatcha.”

“Whatever did you do?” asked Sloth, his face the perfect mask of the enraptured listener and his teacup—half-full, I noted, with mild astonishment—rattling nervously in its saucer.

“I tell ya what I did. I played the hand the Bless’d Nature Mama gave me! I drew back the smackers, showed the white-and-pointies, soapied the ol’ maw, half-shut the peepers, and let the ol’ stink-bomb explode! Then I keeled over and, tell ‘em, Inky.”

“Played possum,” I supplied with a smile.

Awesome nodded. “And waited. And I knew a jeeper-creeper high-and-mighty like ‘im wouldn’t be able to resist a closer sneaky-pete.” He closed his eyes and tilted his head imitating repose, but continued to speak. “And as soon as I felt that cabbage breath on my titters…POW!”

He sprang up, teeth bared.

Three teacups tipped onto the den floor.

“And I chased that Mister Ghostie out of my homey-gnomey, all across this Rotter-and-Hamster Kitty until he finally waved the white flag and surrendered to the tenacity and veracity of the Awesomest Possumest in the Land! HA-HA! He found himself a new set of digs. He ain’t a-bothered me since.”

Ferret fixed him with a cold stare. “You interrupted a very important dress rehearsal. And the entire production of ‘My Fair Ferret’ had to be relocated, then scrapped in its entirety because,” his voice quavered, and he spoke hastily, “of unusual occurrences in the theatre and half the cast under the care of a nerve specialist.”

Despite Ferret’s grumblings, I swelled with pride, and thus, was compelled to clap. As did Sloth. Then I gave Awesome a hearty thump on the back and whooped in a spirit much more of my native land than my exiled one. Sloth demurred on this point and eyed his spilled tea with no little chagrin.

“Well done, Mister Awesome. You did your fellow countrybeasts proud,” I said, refilling his cider glass.

“I told ya, Inky, I’m just Awesome.”

“Yes, you are,” I agreed.

He blushed.

* * *

“You’ve stolen my idea!” cried Ferret. “Now, I’ll have to think of something else.”

Awesome chuckled.

“Let’s see,” said Ferret. “There was once a magician. A rabbit assisted him in his performances. The rabbit was pretty and sweet and had superior taste in mustelid companionship.”

Sloth smiled. I smirked. Awesome rolled his eyes.

“The magician travelled all over the country, giving performances on seaside piers and church fetes. With time, however, he fell ill. No doctor could help. He became weaker, until one day, the rabbit resting on his chest, he whispered,”

“’Promise me, Carmilla’—the rabbit’s name was Carmilla—'that after my death, you will take this ring and fling it into the nearest sea.’ The rabbit twitched her nose. The magician pressed the gold band into her snowy fur and died.”

“The rabbit was tearless.”

Sloth and I leaned closer, expectantly.

“What?” said Ferret. “That’s all there is. Oh, and the magician was a vampire.”

“Oh, golly-molly 'n; saints-on-da-tomb, youse mad, bad, and dangerous to knows, podjo,” smacked Awesome, rolling his eyes, twice.

Ferret sprang to his feet. “Now, see here—”

“Ferret,” said Sloth. “Might I put my thoughts and pen to your story? They intrigue me greatly. I’d like to embellish them with my own musings, if you’d be so kind.”

“Intriguing?” echoed Ferret. “Yes, of course, they are. I mean, they’re mine after all, but well, if it really means that much to you, the story’s yours.”

Sloth smiled and nodded. “Thank you very much, Ferret. You’re very generous.”

Ferret preened.

“Well,” I said. “I suppose it’s time to bring out the last of the provisions and take the storyteller’s stage myself.”

My guests nodded.

“Yes, do tell us a story, Inky,” said Sloth.

And so I did.

* * *

“You’ve stolen my thunder!” cried Ferret. “Now, I’ll have to think of something else.”

Awesome chuckled.

“Let’s see,” said Ferret. “There was once a magician. A rabbit assisted him in his performances. The rabbit was pretty and sweet and had superior taste in mustelid companionship.”

Sloth smiled. I smirked. Awesome rolled his eyes.

“The magician travelled all over the country, giving performances on seaside piers and church fetes. With time, however, he fell ill. No doctor could help. He became weaker, until one day, the rabbit resting on his chest, he whispered,”

“’Promise me, Carmilla’—the rabbit’s name was Carmilla—'that after my death, you will take this ring and fling it into the nearest sea.’ The rabbit twitched her nose. The magician pressed the gold band into her snowy fur and died.”

“The rabbit was tearless.”

Sloth and I leaned closer, expectantly.

“What?” said Ferret. “That’s all there is. Oh, and the magician was a vampire.”

“Oh, golly-molly and saints-on-da-tomb, youse mad, bad, and dangerous to knows, podjo,” smacked Awesome, rolling his eyes, twice.

Ferret sprang to his feet. “Now, see here—”

“Ferret,” said Sloth. “Might I put my thoughts and pen to your story? They intrigue me greatly. I’d like to embellish them with my own musings, if you’d be so kind.”

“Intriguing?” echoed Ferret. “Yes, of course, they are. I mean, they’re mine after all, but well, if it really means that much to you, the story’s yours.”

Sloth smiled and nodded. “Thank you very much, Ferret. You’re very generous.”

Ferret preened.

“Well,” I said. “I suppose it’s time to bring out the last of the provisions and take the storyteller’s stage myself.”

My guests nodded.

“Yes, do tell us a story, Inky,” said Sloth.

And so I did.

\---

“Do you remember some weeks ago, my dear Sloth, that vexing incident about the tea?”

“Oh, yes. You invited me and Mother and were quite surprised when we arrived a day later than anticipated. It had nothing to do with our natural tendency to lethargy, no; it seems the post had been delayed and your ‘tomorrow’ had thus become our ‘the day after tomorrow.’” He scratched his head. “If I recall, there had been several deaths amongst the prairie dogs, the network of rodents who carry messages to and fro beneath the Zoological Garden?”

“Indeed. At first, I went to the post headquarters to lodge a complaint, but when I arrived, I sensed that all was not as it seemed, that the cause of the prairie dogs’ deaths was not natural at all. That something was being concealed about the matter. I used Mister Holmes’s methods and went investigating. Following the trail of clues and witnesses’ statements, I found myself in the Dark Quarry.”

“Inky, you didn’t tell me!” whined Ferret. “Fancy having an adventure without _me_!”

“You went to the Dark Quarry alone, Inky?” asked Sloth with alarm. Then he tut-tutted over his tea. “Most unwise, most unwise.”

“So whatsa thisa Hairy-Curry like, Inks?” asked Awesome.

“It is located at the furthest edge of this realm, a barren wasteland of jagged rock. Its purpose, or so I am told, is to prevent the escape of the least neighbourly of my neighbours here at the zoo. I made my way through the treacherous terrain very slowly and very carefully. The first strange occurrence was an odd shadow. It moved and, thus, was not of a rock. It was large and made by a creature whom I could not readily identify. No ears like a rabbit. No tail like a squirrel. But rodential, I thought, based on the way it rooted about the ground, even though the rock would not yield to its purpose. I studied it, or tried to, but it soon scurried away. The second strange occurrence was finding Victor.”

“Of course, at first, I didn’t know his name was Victor. He was a prairie dog, and I may not have the skills of Doctor Watson, but I do know when an animal is not long for this world. How long he’d been lying at the bottom of that steep ravine, I cannot say. It took me some time to reach him. I thought to go for help, to fetch some of Father Mantis’s attendants, but he bid me stay by his side in a manner that brokered no quarrel, at least not with one as sensitive as I.”

“’What brought you to the Quarry?’ I asked.”

“’I am pursuing someone who is fleeing from me,’ he said.”

“’Is it a large rodent?’”

“’Yes! Where did you see him?’”

“’Back there,” I said, turning to indicate the path from whence I had come. “But calm yourself, and keep your strength. My name is Inky Quill.’”

“’Forgive me. I’m Victor. Moments ago, I was prepared to die and take my secret with me, but now I feel that a full confession is in order.’”

“This disturbed me. ’I’m not an especially pious creature—' I began.’’

“’You are a creature of letters, though, aren’t you?’”

“I nodded.”

“’I seek no absolution for my sin, but I would like my tale told. If you will not be my confessor, perhaps you will serve as my chronicler?’”

“’Gladly,’ I said, and settled by his side.”

“’Like all prairie dogs of the Zoological Garden, I was born into the tunnel service, but my interests lay elsewhere. At mind and heart, I am a natural philosopher and whene’er my shift below ground ended, I sought knowledge above ground, hiding in the shadows where’er the great thinkers of this age and this metropolis might be found.’”

“’My mother’s death was a heavy blow to me; she was the only member of the family who knew and approved of my unusual pursuit. I became more and more interested in the thin veil between life and death. I went to butchers’ stalls and taxidermy shops and even morgues, studying life and death. I found a kindred spirit among a human named Waltman and learned chemistry at his wainscoting. Finally, I gave up the search for knowledge outside and began to experiment on my own, in a secret tunnel that I dug for that purpose.’”

“’I devoted myself to private study for a year, using the bodies of animals such that I could find. It was a stormy night when the power to give life was finally in my paws. I felt the bolt of lightning strike the tree above my laboratory and, in less than an instant, flipped a switch on an apparatus of my own crafting, that the force might flow into the moribund corpse—a very distant cousin of mine who’d died of heart failure two days prior.’”

“’The body twitched. It jumped. And, then as it raised its head, I knew I’d achieved my aim.…IT WAS ALIVE!’”

“’But it grew and grew, like a balloon nearing bursting, until it was at least one hundred times its original size. The tunnel could not contain it, of course. It burrowed up to the ground’s surface. I tried to follow, but the amount of soil that it threw in its wake buried me thrice, and I lagged behind it.’”

“’Oh, what a terrible night! I chased it as the storm raged on. It headed toward The Caves. The lightning cracked, the thunder boomed, and…’”

I paused, basking for a moment in the glow my audience’s attention.

“And?!” cried Ferret impatiently.

“’…and it ran headlong into a camp of stray bats.’”

“ _Stray_ bats?” echoed Sloth, thoughtfully.

I nodded and gave each of my guests’ a knowing look, so knowing that they each sank a little lower in their seats.

“Oh, Inky,” said Ferret, his whiskers drooping.

“Well, ain’t dat ya mama’s torsa-corsa on da flagpole,” said Awesome, with a single smack of his lips.

“Victor continued his tale. ‘I did not know at the time, but it became clear very soon, that my creature had been beset by one of the bats. Oh, vanity! I had been so blind in my pursuit of truth, of power, that I had not considered the full consequences of my actions. Anything that is living can suffer illness and make others to suffer, too. I followed my creature a day and a night, by then, the madness had begun to manifest.’”

“Hydrophobia. Rabies,” breathed Sloth, and a shiver ran through the three.

I nodded. “Victor said, ‘I will never know how much of its mania was of my own doing and how much was the poison in the bat’s bite. It turned on me, its mouth frothy, its eyes wild with rage, it lunged and cried, in words that haunt me still, ‘Why? Why? Why? Oh, loathe that I was e’re born, much less re-born! I will spare you, that you might suffer as I suffer!’ Then it left me for good. I learned that it bit four of my tunnel-mates. They each,’ he coughed and sniveled until his chest rattled ominously, ‘had to be destroyed, lest the madness spread. A mob with torches chased my creature as far as the tunnels ran. It eluded them, but not me. I followed it here, but I slipped and fell from the precipice. You are in grave danger, Mister Quill, of not just death, but a mad death. But if you fall prey to it, well, perhaps we shall meet again, but if you survive, tell my tale, Mister Quill, and tell them how heartily sorry I was at the end.’ And with that he closed his eyes.”

I sighed.

“So that’s my tale.”

“But, Inky, what happened to the creature?” asked Sloth.

“I do not know.”

The three cried as one.

“WHAT?!”

“But then he’s still out there?!” exclaimed Ferret. They all looked toward the entrance to my den, where the storm was just beginning to abate.

“Perhaps the madness overtook it and it expired in the Dark Quarry, but you see, my dear Sloth, why the exact circumstances of the deaths of the prairie dogs were not made common knowledge.”

“Naturally, but Inky, the zoo authorities must be made aware. It’s a grave risk.”

Ferret’s eyes darted about the den. “It could be anywhere.”

“Anywhere? Hardly,” I said.

I moved around the rear of the group and, as I collected the tea things, brushed by back paws against a pile of blankets against the wall.

“MMM-RAWRRR!”

The mound of blankets grew larger, then fell away to reveal a large, grey-furred rodent who reached his clawed paws out and bared his teeth.

“AAAARGH!” screamed Ferret and flew out into the night.

“AAAARGH!” screamed Awesome and fainted dead away.

Only Sloth, perhaps because he could not neither fly nor faint, heard me when I said,

“Have a nice nap, Mister Gopher?”

The gopher, the largest of his kind I’d ever met, yawned and rubbed his eyes and stretched his limbs, throwing off the last of his makeshift bedding. “Yes, indeedy, why I don’t know when I’ve slept longer and harder, Mister Quill. Thank you so much for lending me the use of your den and your hearth whilst the storm did its worst. Well, off to work. Good evening to you, sir,” he said, taking up his hat and tipping it to Sloth.

Sloth stared at me and when Mister Gopher had left, said,

"So those prairie dogs _did_ die of plague?"

"Yes. Wasn't that what inspired your story, my dear Sloth? I just, well, embellished it a bit."

He chuckled. “Oh, Inky, you are a bit of a devil.”

I nodded and grinned. “Just a bit.”

And so I wish all my gentle readers a very magical All Hallows’ Eve and may all your wet ungenial nights be as splendid as ours.

Your humble servant,

Inky Quill

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part of the joke is that Bryon only wrote “Fragment of a Novel,” that is, a tiny piece of a vampire tale as a result of this contest they held at the Swiss villa in 1816. Polidori then based his novella on this fragment and in doing so created what many consider the first modern vampire story in _The Vampyre_ (which I changed to Le Fanu’s _Carmilla_ because I like it better). Ferret’s seaside romance with a magician’s rabbit is the subject of [August](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6848800/chapters/17490022) (Chapter 7 of this collection). Inky’s story is inspired by Mary Shelley’s _Frankenstein_ and [this news story](https://wtop.com/baltimore/2017/07/rabid-groundhog-maryland-zoo/) of a rabid groundhog at a zoo. Also, the gopher is inspired by one I saw in real life and couldn’t tell what it was because it was so huge.


	37. November

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Inky runs in a charity race organized by Doctor Watson.

Hindsight is singularly sharp in terms of wisdom, but the resulting regret often erases all memory of the circumstances which led to decisions deemed, retrospectively, unwise. Such was the case when I found my lungs about to explode.

“Why did I agree to this?” I cried.

Immediately, I realised that the folly, given the situation, to have wasted valuable breath on spoken lament.

“We are raising funds for the Girls’ Flower Mission,” replied Sloth. “Come on, Inky. Not much more.”

“You are riding in a [ _and here I must censor my chronicle for my language was, lamentably, unfit for gentle readers’ eyes_ ] barrow! I am running on my own four paws!”

“And I suspect that all those humans who failed to anticipate my placing, which is, of course, all the humans who wagered on this event, are feeling remarkably silly. With Bartholomew’s assistance,” he was referring to his faithful chauffeur, an even-tempered hound who was, at the moment, galloping down the improvised race track, “we shall not do badly.”

“Bartholomew is not assisting _me_ at all!”

“Nevertheless, you can do it, Inky! I have faith in you. And I know for a fact that Doctor Watson has five pounds on your placing.”

At the name, memory became less foggy.

“Doctor Watson is the [ _more retractions_ ] who got me into this mess!”

“True. It combined his affinity for that charitable society which aides the least advantaged humans of the city with his affinity for what I believe is called ‘the turf.’”

Suddenly, there was flutter and noise.Both Sloth and I were caught up in the storm and slowed, but when the air cleared of feather and sound, we both noted what had caused the disturbance.

“Oh, Sloth, I’ll be [ _even more retractions_ ] if I am going to be bested by a bunch of turkeys!”

“Quite so, Inky! _On y va_ , Bartholomew!”

And so it was that I placed third in the inaugural Her Majesty’s Zoological Garden’s Charitable Race. Sloth and the good Bartholomew placed second.

The first place went to Ferret, whom I later discovered earned not only bragging rights, but also an impressive selection of fine cheese and sausages as promised by his secret trainer and sponsor, Mister Sherlock Holmes, whom I am also told also won enough money from his wager to treat Doctor Watson to a very nice dinner at Simpson’s.

And so, while looking backward may result in more clarity about the past, it may also cause one to stumble, and therefore, there are times when it’s best to keep one’s head forward and one’s eyes on the turkeys one wishes to outrun.

And so, until next month, my gentle readers, I remain,

your humble servant,

Ink Quill


	38. Inky's Poetry Journal: Mister Autumn-Spring Tree (Sestina)

A crisp November morn, I spied a sapling rare

aside an untrod path. The stately arbour stood

and greeted me with curious boughs out-stretched and low.

On branches right sprang pascal blooms, pink petals curled.

On branches left hung russet leaves about to fall.

Without pause, I dubbed him Mister Autumn-Spring Tree.

 

Since then, I’ve visited Mister Autumn-Spring Tree

thrice. Every time expecting spectacle less rare.

But no, the russet-coloured leaves have yet to fall,

as if the calendar has been misunderstood,

defied. The leaves refuse the whip of winds cold, curled,

the tug of time, though all their kins-sprigs be laid low.

 

The woods are naked columns, save for bronze bellow

across the pond. Mister Autumn Spring-Tree

bears no resemblance to those tongues of saints-fire curled.

Their holy smoke, though handsome, brilliant, far from rare,

whilst his is aspect nature’s very march’s withstood.

Though awed, I ask myself, “Why do the leaves not fall?”

 

“What blooms in such a frosty air? What spells befall

sojourner lost who prays for path with fingers curled

from chill and lifts bowed head to gaze upon soft-stood

obliging sweetness of Mister Autumn-Spring Tree?”

His petals are a blush that blossoms, colour rare,

when all around is drained of hue, ashen, mellow.

 

How does he wear both at once? Autumn’s mantle curled

with spring’s jeweled braid of scouting honeybee’s windfall.

A patchwork quilt of seasons joined by stitches rare,

unseen. Like scheme of rhyme, this forest longfellow,

he bids me tell his tale, Mister Autumn-Spring Tree,

to say what I have seen, have felt, where I have stood.

 

And so, with pen, I etch what I have under stood,

his limbs, his mystery, his majesty uncurled,

the dual-nature of Mister Autumn-Spring Tree.

His foliage, holding on, the dammed waterfall,

And stares wild, crinkled brows of all who stroll below

and know they’re blessed for witnessing his embrace rare.

 

How very tall he stood, like grace before the fall,

how pink the tips up-curled, how brown the tips dipped low.

Mister Autumn-Spring tree wrought bleak November rare.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The sestina is a strict ordered form of poetry, dating back to twelfth century French troubadours. It consists of six six-line (sestets) stanzas followed by a three-line envoy. Rather than use a rhyme scheme, the six ending words of the first stanza are repeated as the ending words of the other five stanzas in a set pattern. The envoy uses two of the ending words per line, again in a set pattern.
> 
> First stanza, ..1 ..2 ..3 ..4 ..5 ..6  
>  Second stanza, ..6 ..1 ..5 .. 2 ..4 ..3  
>  Third stanza, ..3 ..6 ..4 ..1 ..2 ..5  
>  Fourth stanza, ..5 ..3 ..2 ..6 ..1 ..4  
>  Fifth stanza, ..4 ..5 ..1 ..3 ..6 ..2  
>  Sixth stanza, ..2 ..4 ..6 ..5 ..3 ..1
> 
> Concluding tercet:  
>  middle of first line ..2, end of first line ..5  
>  middle of second line ..4, end of second line..3  
>  middle if third line ..6, end of third line ..1


	39. December

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Title: December by I. Quill  
> Length: 500  
> Rating: Gen  
> Summary: Inky tells a story of an African spurred tortoise and a Scottish Schnauzer.  
> Author’s Notes: Inspired by [this news story](http://www.abc15.com/news/region-southeast-valley/chandler/chandler-firefighters-rescue-dog-stuck-in-six-foot-tortoise-hole). For the December Holmes Minor prompt of animal + stone/metal.

“Are you aware, Mister Holmes, that the African spurred tortoise creates extensive burrows year-round? Their burrows are usually three feet below the surface, but can extend to six feet.”   
  
“I was not, Mister Quill,” replied Mister Holmes with an indulgent smile.  “At present, Doctor Watson and I are involved in a case of a highly sensitive nature. Opportunities to enhance my knowledge of desert fauna have been limited.”    
  
I nodded. “Then perhaps you are also not aware that such burrows could accommodate a canine of the size of a—” I turned to Ferret.   
  
“Scottish Schnauzer,” he supplied.   
  
“No,” huffed Mister Holmes, rising. “Mister Quill, Mister Ferret, I fear our visit must be cut short, urgent matters require my attent—”   
  
“A Scottish Schnauzer,” I interrupted, “like the curious Ticklish Rubin who has recently disappeared from his home with the Chandlers, a kind-hearted family who also keep an African spurred tortoise, Scully.”   
  
“It’s been years since I’ve been in the business of finding lost dogs, Mister Quill!” said Holmes, shortly.   
  
“You might reconsider, Mister Holmes, if you knew that Ticklish Rubin, before his disappearance, had a ravenous appetite, a tendency to be where he should not be—”   
  
“Mister Quill!”   
  
“And that the Chandlers’ garden abuts that of the feline-loving mistress of Mister Winston.”   
  
Mister Holmes froze.  Doctor Watson’s jaw dropped.    
  
“Yes, Mister Holmes,” I said. “Winston, the jeweler entrusted by the fourth Lord Harris to set the Seringapatam emeralds into a suite of jewelry for his wife, Lucy Ada. A suite that will be spectacular once the largest emerald is recovered by you.  Nature is strange, Mister Holmes. A dog like Ticklish Rubin may swallow something with the appearance of a treat. He may then chase a cat into a burrow carved by his menagerie companion and find that he cannot escape, well, not without a bit of—”   
  
“Ferreting,” said Ferret, with a smirk.    
  
“And then?” asked Holmes, his voice a whisper.    
  
“And then, if the poor, rescued beast is offered a genuine a treat, say—”   
  
“A very large number of ripe Italian sausages,” said Ferret, licking his lips.    
  
“—until, at last, an egress occurs”    
  
At this, Ferret produced the green stone from his waistcoat pocket.    
  
“I took the liberty of leaving your card, Mister Holmes, at the butcher’s. When the dearth of inventory is discovered, you may receive a sizable bill.”   
  
“Which will be paid in full and gladly,” said Holmes as he took the stone and studied it in the light. Then he shook his head and smiled. “The world lost a fine crime-solver when you decided to become a poet, Mister Quill.”    
  
And so, my dear readers, some Yuletide gifts come in a shoe filled with straw, some come in a stocking hung by a chimney, and some come quite early in the season in the form of a sincere compliment from a sleuth who writes a bit of poetry to a poet who does a bit of sleuthing.    
  
Until next time,

Inky Quill


	40. Inky's Poetry Journal: Mid-Winter's Dream

A snowy woodland scene, mid-winter’s dream

of curious fellow caught in white-tailed’s stare.

The birds and beasts with which the forests teem

are drawn by offerings, rich, rare, laid bare.

 

First to arrive the chickadee- _dee-dee_

then jays and cardinals in flashy coats

Soon waxwings berry-pluck a snowdrift tree

whilst titmouse spreads its angel-wings, flaps, floats.

 

A squirrely nut-thief plunders snowman’s face;

the goldfinches devour seed in his hat

a-ground, the junco, doves and turkeys dance

‘midst corn that crows in files and rows peck at.

 

Red-capped woodpeckers tap-tap-tap, noodle

whilst dreamer feasts on tea, snickerdoodle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This English sonnet is Inky’s dream. The forest is an American forest and the birds are American birds and American names for birds and Inky is dreaming of eating American cookies. The poem was inspired by the children’s book [ _Tea with Lady Sapphire_](https://strangerinthewoods.com/product/tea-with-lady-sapphire-sharing-the-love-of-birds/) by Carl R. Sams II and Jean Stoick, who also wrote _Stranger in the Woods_ , which inspired the fic which led to the creation of Inky. The books are notable for their use of wildlife photography.


	41. Happy Birthday, Mister Holmes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Title: Happy Birthday, Mister Holmes  
> Length: 500  
> Rating: Gen  
> Notes: Riddle poem, Holmes, Watson, Inky  
> Summary: Inky sends Mister Holmes birthday greetings.

“How does a porcupine send a letter?” I announced as I climbed the stairs.

“Irrelevant, my dear Watson,” replied Holmes, without looking up from the acid-charred bench over which he had been hunched all morning. “It is riddle with no answer, much like Mister Carroll’s question of the similarities between ravens and writing desks.”

“On the contrary, quite relevant, my dear Holmes,” I said, “as you have post.”

He straightened, eased a pair of leather-strapped googles onto his forehead, and took the proffered missive. He looked at the letter then shot me a glance.

“It’s from Mister Quill. You didn’t, say, inform him of the significance of today’s date?”

“Perhaps,” I confessed.

Holmes opened the letter.

I read over his shoulder.

Dear Mister Holmes,

I am recuperating from illness and being yet confined to den by doctor’s orders and having no wish to bestow upon your person or household the gift of malady along with my regard, I fear I must resort to correspondence to convey my well wishes. Many returns of the day, sir, and please accept three bits of costumed verse as tokens of my highest esteem.

Yours, humbly,

Inky Quill

_The first’s a gent._

_The second’s of._

_The third may be_

_high past-taken silk from Rome_

_or_

_low wool splintered from an East End mission comb._

“It seems that poor Inky’s worse off than he claims,” I said. “Or else he’s taken far too much medicinal brandy.”

“Nonsense. It’s a riddle. I suspect during his convalescence Inky’s amusing himself with, among other things, your chronicles of our adventures. This one is ‘a man of the cloth,’ referring to my disguises as a venerable Italian priest, that is, high, in the liturgical sense, past-taken, meaning ‘stole,’ from Rome and as a Nonconformist clergyman, by references to ‘splintered’ and East End, where such types are often found.”

“And this one?”

_The first’s a-filled with briny wheeze_

_and too-much-king’s-herb-in-the-stew sneeze_

_The last’s either’s friend,_

_the rock in whose veins the golds extend._

“No, Watson? The king’s herb? From the Greek for ‘royal plant.’ Basil.”

“Captain Basil!”

“And the rôle of asthmatic old master mariner I employed during our case known to the reading public as _The Sign of Four_. The first part being ‘A sail,’ the last ‘or,’ together, ‘a sailor.’”

_This one has been dunk with a spirited ‘arr.’_

_But he’s most oft a bride’s a-partner-in-spar._

“I’ve got it!” I cried. “Dunk with a spirited ‘arr’ is ‘drunk.’ And, whilst working for the King of Bohemia, you also disguised yourself as—”

“A groom,” said Holmes, smiling. “Most charming.” He returned the letter to its envelope, the went to his desk and found paper and a pen. “I shall send my thanks to Mister Quill at once.”

“But you haven’t answered my riddle, Holmes, and you must if you wish your reply to be received.”

He raised an eyebrow.

“How does a porcupine post a letter?” I repeated impatiently.

Holmes frowned. “How?”

“By Special Mustelid, Ferret First Class, Male!”


	42. January

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Title: January by I. Quill  
> Length: 500  
> Rating: Gen  
> Summary: On the Feast of Asses (January 14), Inky & the gang play charades at 221B.

So often five sets of eyes can be looking at the same spectacle, yet each arrive at a different interpretation.

“Is it a donkey?”

This suggestion provoked the vigorous nodding of one head and four sets of ah’s from the rest of the party present, a party in the festive sense of the word, as all were gathered at 221B Baker Street for a belated celebration of Mister Holmes’s birthday.

The guest of honour, and his faithful companion, had been called away by Scotland Yard. Per instruction, we were awaiting their return and amusing ourselves with a game of charades in the meantime.

Ferret had volunteered to go first, and I have to say initially his gesticulations were puzzling, but with a clue revealed, thanks to the keen observation, or imagination, of Mouselet, the field of supposition was opened.

“I think, then, it must be Balaam’s ass from the Book of Numbers,” said Sloth. He cleared his throat, closed his eyes and recited, “ _’And when the ass saw the angel of the Lord, she fell down under Balaam: and Balaam's anger was kindled, and he smote the ass with a staff_.”

We all frowned, and Ferret shook his head.

The Ocelot removed his spectacles and said, “My dear Sloth, you are correct in one respect. It is a Biblical reference, but certainly today, on the Feast of Asses, it must refer to the beast of burden which carried the Holy Family to Egypt in their flight from Herod’s wrath.”

At this, I had to speak my mind.

“With all due respect, Ferret is not a Biblical scholar, and he only attends service when he’s required to foil crimes! He is, however, a thespian. Thus, the ass must be Nick Bottom, from Shakespeare’s _A Midsummer Night’s Dream_.”

“Why need it be an animal from literature at all?” interjected Miss Aemilia Vole. “Why can it not be our Queen’s beloved Jacquot?”

While all nodded at the wisdom of this statement, Ferret kept shaking his head and hopping and flailing, so much so that none of us heard the footsteps on the stairs.

“Oh, charades!” called Doctor Watson as he hung up his coat. “Let’s see, ‘Away in a Manager’?”

“YES!” screamed Ferret. He collapsed in an exasperated heap upon the rug.

The rest of the party exchanged looks of astonishment.

“How ever did you know?” I asked.

“Well, he looked just like Holmes who, because of my twisted ankle, had to take the role of the donkey in the living Nativity scene. That’s the carol the choir was singing when Holmes started braying, thus distracting the kidnappers from collecting the ransom.”

By now, Mister Holmes had reached the top of the stairs.

“You were, after all, Holmes,” continued Watson, “a perfect ass.”

And so, you see, my gentle readers, as is so often the case, the beauty, and perhaps even the donkey, are much in the eye of the beholder.

Until next time, I remain your servant,

Inky Quill 


	43. Inky's Poetry Journal: Bleak Verse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Inky's a bit down these days.

When skies

are grey,

write

a bit of

bleak verse.

 

When muse

won’t stay,

it’s passage

in a

teak hearse.

 

When words

betray,

portend

like a

Greek curse,

 

and grief, dismay,

hover

just like a

meek nurse,

 

when news’s all used

honor slain

in games of

seek-purse,

 

there’s no choice,

no rhyme, no voice,

it’s either pray

or reason-stray

or

write

a bit of

bleak verse.


	44. February

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Inky meets 'The Speckled Band.'

I hope that my gentle readers will bear with me as I must make mention of another’s story before I launch into my own.

* * *

Doctor Watson’s voice rose. His audience, arrayed on the sitting room rug before the fire, sat hanging on his every word.

“…As he spoke he drew the dog-whip swiftly from the dead man’s lap, and throwing a noose round the reptile’s neck he drew it from its horrid perch and, carrying it at arm’s length, threw it into the iron safe, which he closed upon it!”

He looked up from his manuscript.

I am not sure what reaction he expected, but it wasn’t the one he got.

One and all, we laughed. Loudly. Heartily.

Doctor Watson’s face fell.

“It is not a humorous tale! It’s a tale of horror!”

“Doctor Watson,” I said as I was the first to recover myself. “There is no Indian swamp adder, no snake of any kind, who could possibly possess the characteristics that you describe. Snakes do not drink milk. They cannot be kept in an iron safe, at least not for long, alive. And most notably, they cannot be trained by a whistle, for you see, they can’t even hear it. They haven’t external ears like this,” I touched one of my own flaps with a paw. “You have told us a fairy tale.”

“And a comical one at that!” cried Ferret, wiping his eyes on the edge of his cape. “Whistle for your snake!” he sang. “Doo-do-do-do-do-do-DO!

“Saucer of milk!” squeaked Mouselet. “Oh, my goodness. If only!” Aemilia Vole nodded.

“But I tell you, it’s the truth!” cried Doctor Watson. “Every word of it!”

A single look passed amongst the gang gathered on the rug and that look if it were set to music might be entitled, ‘Too Much Medicinal Brandy (That’ll Do).’

Amusing thought it was, the incident passed from my mind with the advent of February. It snowed often, keeping me den-bound, isolated from friends and the rest of the world, and not a little chilled despite my best efforts at insulation and draught-fighting. Skies were grey. It seemed my muse, too, had fled in search of more clement climes, or perhaps a warmer abode, for all attempts at writing verse were frustratingly futile. I found no solace in literature and so, imitating the daily habit of Mister Holmes and Doctor Watson, turned for a brief period to reading the humans’ newspaper, which was delivered piecemeal by carrier pigeons. News was often bleak, though, and I found myself more saddened than informed.

And then a friend and fellow poet, the elephant Kedar, died. Not suddenly and not violently, but nevertheless, I grieved the loss of a creature with whom I had spent many an amiable evening. The baboons brought me a large piece of his tusk, which he had bequeathed to me, and I was contemplating carving an inscription upon it as a memorial.

But would it be a portion of Kedar’s own verse? Or mine? Should I write something new for the occasion?

As I contemplated these questions, the stout white pillar sat, like the heart of Shelley uncoupled from the body of Shelley, stalwart and sobering, an ever-present reminder of my sorrow, my loss, my mortality.

Then one bitterly cold night, I heard a noise that no animal desires to hear in his quarters.

A hiss.

At once, my quills fanned out.

“Show yourself!” I shouted.

“Here I am,” said a voice.

He was yellow with brownish speckles.

“Pleasssed to meet you, Missster Quill.”

“Get out!”

“I think not. The night isss ssso very cold. And ssso am I. I am given to underssstand that you and your asssociates doubt my exissstence and ssso felt compelled, not unlike a certain prophet, to offer a demonssstration.”

I remembered Doctor Watson’s story. “You’re ‘The Speckled Band’?”

“Have you any milk?”

“No.”

He hummed. “Then how ssshall I prove my sssingular nature?”

“You haven’t even introduced yourself,” I remarked with hostility.

“Oh, how rude of me! My name isss Cyril Monteverdi No-Legs. Once of India, mossst famously, or notoriousssly, of SSStoke Moran, Sssurrey, and mossst recently of thisss grimy metropolisss, that isss, the Bank of England.”

“Subtil? Goodness, yours must be a very old line, indeed. ‘Now the serpent was more subtil than any beast of the field which the Lord God had made,’” I recited from the humans’ book of Genesis.

“Cyril,” he repeated, with slightly less sibilance and slightly more irritation.

“Ah. I’m Inky Quill.”

“I know.” He slid to the center of my den and curled himself in a tight coil.

“Do not make yourself at home! But wait, am I to understand that you _live_ at the Bank of England?”

“In a vault. I’ve risssen from sssimple iron sssafes, you ssssee. One of the bank adminissstratorsss isss parssseltongued. We have arrangement. I come and go asss I pleassse, with the twice daily checksss of ressservesss, but when I am in resssidence, ssso to ssspeak, I provide theft deterrence.”

“It can’t be comfortable.”

“It meetsss my needsss, but tonight isss very cold. Thusss, my timely appearance at thisss cosssy corner.”

He tilted his head, surveying the environs.

“Doctor Watson’s story seemed fantastic.”

The snake inclined his head. “You may be forgiven, Missster Quill, for your incredulity. I found myssself in a sssimilar ssstate when I read there wasss a poet-porcupine living in this cessspool of idlersss and loungersss.”

“If Doctor Watson’s story is true, then you are a murderer.”

“Like all creaturessss, I have a nature, sssingular asss well asss bassse. Lamentably, the bassse elementsss were exploited once. I asssure you, they ssshan’t be again.”

“Be that as it may, you can’t stay here!”

“Why not? The Bank opensss at nine o’ clock.”

“I have no wish to join the late Miss Stoner or her step-father in the hereafter!”

He had no shoulders, as well as no legs, but nevertheless seemed to shrug. “No milk at all?”

“No!”

“Then we mussst talk of musssic.”

“Music?”

“Do you know much of musssic, Missster Quill?”

I shook my head. “Only that it’s ‘moody food of us that trade in love.’”

“Jussst ssso, jussst ssso, you ssshould lisssten to your Bard. It is also ‘the language of infinity’ and the ‘Art which is most nigh to tears and memory.’”

Voltaire. Mister Wilde. This adder was beginning to intrigue me.

I shuffled around him and settled myself right in front of the entrance to my quarters. It was the coldest spot in the den, but also afforded the quickest exit should my uninvited guest’s base nature rear its arrow-shaped head. I remembered Doctor Watson’s story, and the creature, ‘subtil’ as he was, read my thoughts.

“It all ssstarted with a whissstle, but it ssshall not end there, no. I ssspend mossst of time in concert hallsss and theatresss, lissstening. Sssometimesss I ssearch out librariesss and ssstudiesss and conssservatoriesss. I’ve even heard sssome interesting sssounds emanating from the window of 221B Baker Ssstreet. I ssshall give you the benefit of my wisssdom in exchange for your hossspitality, Misster Quill. Ssshall we ssstart with the medieval period?”

He spoke of Machaut. He spoke of plainsong. He spoke of polyphony. I listened, but my interest was not piqued until he began to talk of ballads and virelai and rondeau. And when he spoke of the last, even humming, I know not how, at bit _of Dieux Gart_ and _En attendant d’voir_ for my benefit, my muse quite suddenly returned.

“I am a poet, Mister No-Legs, but I am also a collector of stories, and I should like to hear your story, your version of what happened at Stoke Moran. And I would very much like to set it to verse.”

His forked tongue flickered. He uncoiled and recoiled himself, a movement which recalled to me the pacing of Mister Holmes before the fire when he was agitated about a case.

Finally, he agreed.

* * *

When rosy-fingered dawn finally broke, the greyness plaguing my heart lifted as well.

“Thank you, Missster Quill.”

“You’re welcome, Mister No-Legs.”

“May I call again?”

“You may,” I said, then thought of the safety of my smaller friends, such as Mouselet, “but only when I haven’t guests.”

He hissed long and loudly, a noise which I now recognised as amusement.

“Jussst ssso. I am horrid at partiesss.”

I moved. He slithered toward the entrance of the den, then stopped and looked over his no-shoulder.

“A few words of advice, Missster Quill. I ssshould not let it be known you posssesss sssuch a fine piece of ivory. The consssequencesss might be devessstating. No one knowsss men’sss greed, men’sss weaknesss better than I.”

And then he was gone.

And so, my dear readers, some fairy tales may well be true, the coldest of nights may provide a long-sought relief from gloom, and the sagest of wisdom may, just may, come from the tongue of a singular and very cunning serpent.

Until next time, I remain, your humble servant,

Inky Quill


	45. Inky's Poetry Journal: The Speckled Band

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As mentioned in the previous chapter, here is the rondeau (a poetic form inspired by medieval French song) of "The Speckled Band."

Subtil is the serpent who knows the way,

who goes where master bids and does not stray,

who learns the whistle’s beck, the iron nest,

the milk in fine bone saucer laid to rest,

the cord to climb, the neck ‘round which to lay.

 

But then Garden of Eden passion play

turns cold, cruel, songless, danceless caberet.

Smite! Fright! Spite! Bite! Abandoned master’s quest.

Subtil is the serpent who knows the way.

 

He picks the lock of danger’s safe, bids g’day

to ship of beasts unmoored from evil’s quay.

Chained no more to another’s foul behest,

he drains where idlers, loungers e’er do best,

to steel walls, concert halls, and _soucoupe de lait._

Subtil is the serpent who knows the way.

 

_Cyril is the serpent who found his way._


	46. March

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Inky's first (and last) foray in a kitchen not his own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the short offering this month. Will have something more substantive for April.

Well, I understand the appellation, I mean, after the stirring and the mixing and the kneading and the rolling and the baking and the decorating, when all that has been realised, and your poor extended self is so overcome by fatigue that you slump in the corner of the kitchen for a minute’s repose, only to awake to the knowledge that the fruits of your labour have been consumed, down to the last currant, by a ferret, a doctor, and a detective, I mean to say!

I wish my readers a peaceful paschaltide and remain,

hot,

cross,

bun-bereft,

Inky Quill


	47. April

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Inky's forced to go into trade. Warning for implied animal death.
> 
> Cyril Monteverdi No-Legs is the snake in "The Speckled Band." His and Inky's first meeting is the subject of February's column.

“…and so the angry badger lived happily ever after in his castle, tooting his bagpipes at all hours, and making the best laid scheme o’ men gang aft a-gley. The End.”

I looked up.

Seven sets of tiny rodent eyes were closed. Seven chests rising and falling in the gentle rhythm of the dreamless.

“Oh, thank you, Mister Quill,” whispered Mother Mouse as she surreptitiously pressed a coin in my paw.

“My pleasure,” I said softly and took my leave.

Professional cheer gave way to personal anxiety, however, as I made my way silently down the stairs. Before I reached the pavement, I tripped over a rope that was coiled carefully beneath the bottom step, where the gaslight from the street lamp could not reach.

“Missster Quill.”

“Mister No-Legs.”

“Why ssso fretful, my dear porpentine? The night isss full of music. I’ve just come from a lovely recital at Ssst. Jamesss. What have you been doing on thisss beautiful evening?”

I would not call Mister No-Legs a bosom friend, for one cannot entirely lower one’s defenses with a fanged adder, but we were on cordial terms. He slithered off into a side street and with a flick of his tail bid me follow.

Few animals would let a serpent lead them into darkness, but then few animals are quite as armed as I am, with quill and with understanding. Mister No-Legs, formerly of Stoke Moran, now some-time resident and guard of a vault of The Bank of England, is a Renaissance reptile with a penchant for the sonorous symphony, the charming concertina, and the like.

Mister No-Legs coiled into a inquisitive twist. “And ssso, prithee, what hasss cassst thee in the role of Poet of the Woeful Countenance?”

“I have gone into trade,” I said.

Asps cannot gasp, but this one did.

“Dear me, what isss the world coming to?” tut-tutted Mister No-Legs. “But why, my dear Missster Quill?”

Though I have been a resident of London for some two years, I am still a frank American by birth. I minced no words.

“I am in need of money. Human money.”

“You have needsss not met by Her Majesssty’s Zoological Gardenersss?”

“I have recently fallen prey to the most vicious of predators.”

He cocked his diamond-shaped head. “One of my lot?”

“The vice of gambling.”

“Oh.”

“Doctor Watson explained to me the principles of wagering, and I had a bit of beginner’s luck at the race track. Then my luck, as they say, ran out. To pay my debts, I was forced to ransom my beloved _Rubaiyat_ to a bunch of egg-sucking weasels by the docks. I have renounced the turf and all its empty promises. Now it is just a question of earning enough ready to reclaim my chattel.”

“And how do you make your living, my dear Missster Quill?”

“For a small fee, I tell bedtime stories. I have just been recounting a bit of Highland lore at Mother Mouse’s boarding house.”

“Ah well, I ssshouldn’t worry, Missster Quill. Thessse thingsss have a way of working themssselves out.”

And with that, he hurried off.

* * *

The next day, a parcel arrived by baboon messenger. I could scarcely believe my eyes when I unwrapped it and saw the green cover with gold lettering.

The words of the Astronomer-Poet of Persia were once more in my paws!

But how?

There was a note.

_With gratitude. Dinner was marvelous!_

_Cyril Monteverdi N-L._

And so, my gentle readers, you see, the poet Burns was most correct, and schemes, like horses, gang aft a-gley.

Until next month, I remain,

Your humble servant,

Inky Quill

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next month will mark the final regular column in this series. After that, I'll be adding as the muse inspires.


	48. Inky's Poetry Journal: Ghazal

Up-snatched from woodland home a fretful porpentine

Uncaged by ship-wreck storm a wetful porpentine.

 

Unfurled for me the welcome mat in exiled land

from Job to Providence-besetful porpentine.

 

With Ocelot and Sloth, with Ferret, Mouselet, too

The once-reclusive, now fete-ful porpentine.

 

Adventures, capers, righting wrongs, and helping friends,

Vocation as avenging threatful porpentine.

 

But off to tend the muse with rest, bucolic care

or suffer still as cross, forgetful porpentine

 

And recognizing all the many gift bestowed

a humbled gratitude begetful porpentine.

 

Your servant, ere and now, and evermore of verse.

Of inky quill, the unregretful porpentine.


	49. Inky's Final Column

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Inky says good-bye. Introducing Czar Samovar, the fiddling rat.

“Play, for heaven’s sake! Play as if your life depends on it!” I implored as I tucked myself as tightly as possible into the dark corner of the alley.

The large, black rat of imperial-grade fur needed no further urging. He took up his instrument and bow and began to scratch.

His life did depend on it, of course. I rarely employ hyperbole outside of literary endeavors.

And you will mark this declaration when I tell you that what happened next stunned me.

I know that literature is replete with contracts with diabolical parties for the purposes of securing talent or wisdom. Oral histories, too, include their share of such accounts, but I’d never believed that someone might have sold their soul to Devil to play a fiddle until I heard Czar Samovar that night in the alley.

There was no other explanation. And I was not alone in my esteem.

Mister No-Legs stopped his predatory advancement and tilted his head, listening. Then he began to sway, as if charmed by the charmer playing ever so sweetly.

Czar scratched.

And scratched.

I, sensitive plant that I am, found myself transported to Xanadu and beyond by the melody that filled the air.

When I felt the press of a small paw on mine, I woke with a start and had that jarring sensation that a very long period of time had passed me by unawares.

I made no sound but followed the tip of the black pointing snout to where Mister No-Legs was coiled, sleeping. There was not one flicker of tip of the serpentine tail.

Time to go.

Czar took his fiddle and bow, and I took his case, and we set off silently toward my den.

“Inky,” he breathed hoarsely as we neared the gates. “I have been on boats from Siberia to Sumatra. When I tired of life at sea, I dropped anchor here. But this metropolitan existence is not for me. It shatters my nerves! That business with your friend the music-lover, the third time this week!” he huffed.

Friend was an exaggeration, but it is not my policy to correct hyperbole in others.

“You wish to return to the sea?” I posed, setting his case on the ground.

He shook his head. “The sea, I am done with her.” The statement seemed as definitive as one could be.

“Then, you are,” I said, “quite possibly, in luck. Tomorrow morning, I am traveling to the Lake District for the summer. There is a colony of artist rodents settling in the shadows of a place called Dove Cottage. Poets, musicians, painters and sketchers, even a sculptor or two. I have reserved a den. It is quiet and peaceful. I myself have been feeling the strain of things and wish to restore my spirits. If you’re so inclined, pack your things and come.”

He flipped open the case and stowed fiddle and bow, then snapped the lid closed.

“Packed!” he declared.

“Very well! I like a rat who knows his own mind. You may stay with me for the night. We leave at dawn.”

“The sooner I wash the filth of this cesspool from my fur, the better.”

“As you say.”

The hedgehog and anteater who were letting my den for the summer arrived just before daybreak. They were compensating me at a handsome sum, but under the agreement that they be allowed to construct a bathing pool on the grounds.

All my friends came to see me off. The Ocelot and Sloth and Mother Sloth. Ferret and Mouselet and Aemelia Vole. Even Awesome Possum, though he was most interested if anything had been left behind in the larder. Mouselet brought well-wishes from Doctor Watson and Mister Holmes. And so, it was to cheers and waves that I made for the next chapter of my tale just as the sun was beginning to rise.

And so, gentle readers, this is my final column. I thank each and every one for your patronage and wish one and all the confidence to face life’s triumphs and defeats with, as my countryman Mark Twain says, with the confidence of a Christian with four aces.

And I remain, your humble servant,

Inky Quill


End file.
